Elementary Murder Read online

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘Well there’s one thing, Sergeant.’

  ‘Oh, and what’s that?’

  Constable Jaggery, hastening to keep up with his sergeant’s urgent pace and giving each nurse he passed along the corridor a friendly smile, said, ‘At least you don’t have to go all the way over to Blackburn to interview this Tollet bloke.’

  ‘I can do it right here in the infirmary, is that what you mean, Constable? While he’s lying face up on a mortuary slab? Very thoughtful of him. Doubt I’ll get much out of him, though.’

  Even Jaggery accepted the impossibility of such a course of action.

  ‘Aye, it’s a bugger.’

  As they passed the Idiot Ward they heard someone scream, a long piercing sound that ended in a sobbing whimper.

  ‘They should keep that lot chained up,’ Jaggery said with a nod in the ward’s direction. ‘Bloody nurses deserve a medal.’

  Brennan said nothing. He was more concerned with what Dr Monroe was about to tell him concerning the post-mortems he had just completed on the bodies of Dorothea Gadsworth and Henry Tollet. Captain Bell had apparently pressed the good doctor to treat both as a matter of great urgency, and for once Brennan was glad that his superior had seen fit to throw his weight around.

  Captain Bell was right – he had no time for coincidences, and he harboured a deep suspicion that the answer lay with George Street Elementary School, with things he had yet to discover. But he was like his bricklayer father in reverse, he told himself as they entered another long corridor which led to the mortuary downstairs. His da spent all his working life placing one brick on another until the structure was complete; he, on the other hand, spent his time dismantling the lies and the facades others had built until there was nothing left but the foundations.

  ‘Demolition, Constable,’ he said with a cryptic smile at his nonplussed companion.

  Jaggery, who knew better than to question such bizarre utterances, slowed down at the top of the steps leading down to the mortuary. ‘I’ll stay up ’ere, Sergeant. On guard, like.’

  Brennan knew how much the big man disliked the sight of eviscerated bodies on a slab.

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ he said as if he were addressing a child on the steps of a drinking den.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, it’s me.’

  He blinked, his eyes struggling to get used to the glare from the oil lamp which now illuminated the small cellar. He saw the flaking plaster and the uneven brickwork that lay beneath. When he’d first been brought down here, for his own good, he’d had the lamp lit for ages and it had given off a sharp, not unpleasant smell as the oil burnt in its brass base. He’d spent some time, once he was assured of his safety, trying to work out patterns in the flaking plasterwork – he’d seen a dog there, sitting on its hind legs and begging, but when he reached out to pluck away at an incongruous piece, a more sizeable chunk fell away and beheaded the dog. Then he saw it with different eyes, and it had become a stormy sea – or what he imagined a stormy sea would look like – with sharp-crested waves soaring up to a darkening sky of damp.

  He was handed a couple of biscuits, which he devoured greedily. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had something hot. ‘But maybe next time?’ he asked and was reassured by a determined nod.

  But the lamp had to be removed – ‘in case anyone sees the smoke,’ he’d been told. ‘We don’t want that, do we?’

  No, we bloody well don’t, he thought. It had been made very clear to him what would happen if anyone found out exactly where he was. No, after all that business on Friday night, he’d cop it good and proper and no mistake.

  So the lamp went and for hours he was left in darkness.

  Which didn’t bother him one bit, him being ten and all.

  ‘In the order of their demise, then?’

  There was a sombre tone to Dr Donald Monroe’s voice. He and Brennan stood in the centre of the examination room, where two bodies draped in white sheets lay a few feet from each other. Monroe had been house surgeon at the Royal Albert Edward Infirmary for sixteen years, and he was a highly respected figure in the community. Brennan found him rather cold at times like this, however, and he’d never got used to the man’s subdued, doleful manner. He was more accustomed to the brash openness of the people he encountered in the normal run of things: the obscenities, the volley of abuse he endured on occasion, all had that raw spark of life in them that this man lacked. He could never imagine Dr Donald Monroe slapping his thigh and roaring out a ‘Come All Ye’ at a wedding or a wake for that matter.

  Still, he was damned good at his job.

  ‘If that’s convenient, Doctor,’ Brennan said and stood back as Monroe reached out and drew away the white sheet on the first of his two corpses: Dorothea Gadsworth.

  ‘Convenient isn’t the word I’d use, Sergeant Brennan. Alexander Bell presumes too much. It’s not really convenient to have two possible murders filling my time when I have a wealth – if that’s the right word – of cases from smallpox to cholera to deal with upstairs with the, as yet, living.’

  ‘I do apologise,’ said Brennan with some asperity.

  ‘Hmm. Well now, this young lady.’

  Brennan saw the girl’s pained features once again. She had been quite a pretty thing. The smoothness of her cheeks and the delicacy of her nose and forehead delineated an innocence, too, that made him feel anger rising along with the bile.

  Monroe held his hand above the face. Brennan had seen a stage magician perform the same action just before levitating his assistant. He admonished himself for the incongruous memory.

  ‘You’ll notice the cyanosis – the blue colouring of the skin – which is an indicator of arsenical poisoning.’ He leant over her face and pulled open the jaw to expose her tongue. ‘And the furring on the tongue, again a sign.’ He gently closed the jaw and replaced the white sheet with reverential care. He gave a nod in the direction of a large metal bowl resting on a table by the wall, a cloth covering its surface.

  Brennan swallowed hard. He knew what lay beneath the cloth.

  ‘But of course it’s in the contents of the stomach and the lining of the stomach that we find more conclusive proof. The lining was ulcerated and inflamed, and a substantial amount of arsenic was found in what remained in the stomach after the poor girl had vomited.’

  ‘There was a bottle of Scotch found beside the body, Doctor. Only the dregs left.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The bottle of whisky you sent me. Brown’s, I believe.’ He moved over to a small cupboard above the table and opened it, pulling out the same bottle that Jaggery had found in the classroom. ‘I’ve examined the dregs, as you put it. Not something I personally would imbibe.’

  ‘I should hope not.’

  ‘Oh, not for the reason you’re thinking, Sergeant. No, Brown’s isn’t to my particular taste. That’s all. But there’s nothing adulterated in this sediment.’ He gave the bottle a swirl and Brennan watched the small amount of amber liquid cloud and settle once more.

  ‘There’s no arsenic in there?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘And her stomach?’

  ‘Large traces of yellow sulphide of arsenic. Produced during the process of putrefaction.’

  Brennan watched as Monroe replaced the whisky in the cupboard. ‘I must have got it wrong, then. I presumed she’d been poisoned by someone. I’d presumed she’d been given the poison in the drink – I know arsenic is almost tasteless so …’ He screwed up his face in an effort to think clearly. ‘Are you saying there was no whisky in her stomach?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘But if it wasn’t in the whisky … what else was there? I mean she’s hardly likely to take arsenic on its own, is she?’

  A rare smile almost flickered across Monroe’s face.

  ‘The arsenic was in the tea.’

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘This poor wee lass had taken a cup of tea with the arsenic. As you say, there wouldn’t be much of a taste.�
��

  ‘So she could have drunk the tea elsewhere? Before finding herself in the classroom?’

  Monroe shook his head. ‘Hardly likely. The impact of such a dosage would have been almost immediate. Not death at that stage, but immense suffering, vomiting, severe cramping. My guess – an educated one, mind – is that she could have suffered for a few hours before death finally brought relief.’

  If she had locked herself in, thought Brennan, then why on earth didn’t she unlock the door and seek help? Even if she had planned to kill herself, surely the intense agony of the poisoning would have compelled her to seek help from somewhere?

  Unless she had no way of unlocking the door.

  Furthermore, if Dorothea Gadsworth took the arsenic in her tea, then where was the cup? They’d seen nothing of a teacup in the classroom. Only the Scotch.

  So what was the Scotch doing there?

  The absence of the teacup meant that it had been removed after she drank from it. But if what Dr Monroe says is true she would have been incapable of removing it from the room herself, then returning and calmly locking the door so she could endure a long and agonising death.

  Had the headmaster removed the teacup as well as the bottle? He’d make sure of asking him.

  ‘And now for the male of the species.’

  Dr Monroe stepped over to the draped form beside Dorothea Gadsworth. He removed the white sheet and stood back, allowing Brennan a good view of the deceased.

  Henry Tollet, he saw, was a rather portentous individual. His jowls sagged onto his neck which was quite thick. He sported a close-cropped beard that contained specks of grey, and there were small areas of a slight redness dotted around his cheeks.

  ‘This poor fellow drowned,’ said Monroe. ‘The face, as you can see, is quite calm. His tongue is swollen, as you can also see.’ He had opened the man’s mouth and Brennan could clearly see the swollen object flecked with tiny spots of foam.

  ‘He wasn’t attacked, then?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, did I, Sergeant? I said he drowned. But if you look here …’ He pulled the sheet further back to expose the man’s hands. Along the knuckles were irregular indentations, some of them deeply embedded in the flesh.

  A sudden image shaped itself in Brennan’s mind: Tollet, scrambling to heave himself from the canal. His assailant bending down and slashing at his hands with some object, possibly a heavy stone, or standing above him and stamping down hard with a clog or a boot, anything to prevent the poor fellow from dragging himself onto the canal bank and safety.

  ‘He drowned, right enough, Sergeant. The lungs were distended and there was a considerable amount of water in his stomach, although with deeply submerged victims that isn’t evidence of drowning in itself. There was froth in the mouth and nostrils. And you can see here, beneath the fingernails, traces of mud and minuscule fragments of plant life. He must have struggled very desperately to live. These wounds would seem to suggest an external force applied to keep him in the water, unless the damage was done by himself in some strange way – slamming his hands repeatedly against some hard object, for instance. It isn’t very likely. But perhaps that kind of speculation belongs more properly to your sphere of expertise, eh, Sergeant?’

  Brennan nodded and watched the sheet draped across the body of the school inspector once more. ‘I don’t like coincidences,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Just thinking aloud.’

  ‘There’s what we found in his pockets.’ Monroe was pointing to a small wooden box on a table at the other side of the room.

  Brennan went over and lifted out the still-sodden contents: a leather wallet, a return railway ticket from Blackburn, and a monogrammed handkerchief. He flicked open the wallet and saw a few banknotes, several business cards he’d undoubtedly picked up on his travels, a booking receipt for the Royal Hotel, Wigan and a silver cigarette case whose contents had been ruined by the waters of the Leeds–Liverpool.

  ‘Crocodile skin, if I’m not mistaken,’ said Monroe who was now standing beside him, indicating the wallet. ‘And the lining is calf skin.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor. I can’t tell you how much that information will help me.’

  Monroe’s response to the sarcasm was a rare smile.

  Brennan then formally thanked the doctor for his work and left the room.

  ‘Ain’t that the headmaster, Sergeant?’ Jaggery asked as they walked up the slope of Standishgate towards the Royal Hotel.

  Brennan saw in the distance a man walk quickly away from the steps of the Royal and turn to his left. The street was quite crowded, and the two of them lost sight of the figure as it moved quickly across the path of a passing tram and entered the Makinson Arcade.

  ‘Looked like him, to be sure,’ Brennan replied.

  Once inside, they met the manager of the Royal Hotel, Mr James Eastoe, a small, dapper individual with a genial disposition. He was visibly shocked when told of the death of one of his guests, and led them to the room on the first floor where Henry Tollet had booked in for five days. Brennan gave him a sharp look.

  ‘Five days? You sure?’

  ‘The booking register does not lie, Sergeant,’ he snapped back, his competence offended.

  Various questions buzzed around Brennan’s head.

  Why didn’t Weston tell me he was staying here?

  Why give me his home address in Blackburn?

  And what was Weston doing here not five minutes ago?

  ‘Such a shock, a very great shock indeed. You don’t expect your guests to be found in such a way. A very pleasant man,’ said Eastoe as he unlocked the door. ‘He arrived on Thursday evening and told me he was a school inspector here to look at two of our schools. One on Friday and one early next week. He said it gave him the opportunity to get out of – what did he call it? – the clang and the clamour of Blackburn. That’s where he comes from, of course. As I say, a most pleasant guest.’

  Brennan and Jaggery entered.

  The room was overlooking Standishgate and the row of shops leading down the slope. The bed was unslept in, and the large wardrobe contained a few items of clothing, including a suit which he was doubtless planning to wear for the visit to his next school. Resting on the floor inside the wardrobe was a small tan leather briefcase, its flap-over buckles hanging loose and unfastened. Inside, Brennan found a sheath of notes pertaining to George Street Elementary School – Inspectorial Visit 21st Sept. 1894. A few sheets were clipped together under various printed headings: Curriculum [including provision for physical exercise]; Discipline; Lessons Observed; School Attendance and Punctuality. The last sheet of all had a heading different from the others: it was handwritten, and said mysteriously, Reported Matters. Beneath was a large question mark, but there was nothing else on the page. Brennan checked that the handwriting was the same as on the other sheets, which seemed to be filled with handwritten notes under each of the four headings. He placed all the sheets back into the briefcase, fastened it and handed it to Jaggery.

  He then turned to the manager and said, ‘Did Mr Tollet have any visitors?’

  Eastoe thought for a while then shook his head. ‘He only dined here three times, Sergeant. Thursday evening, Friday morning and Friday evening. His key was unclaimed on Friday night after he went out and it has remained on its hook behind the reception desk ever since. Unless, of course, you count Mr Weston.’

  ‘The headmaster?’

  ‘You’ve just missed him. He came to enquire about our guest, too.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He simply asked to see Mr Tollet and I told him he hadn’t been seen since Friday night. He then left.’

  ‘I see.’

  Brennan exchanged a glance with Jaggery who gave a non-committal shrug.

  ‘You say Mr Tollet went out on Friday night after he dined?’

  ‘Yes. He hadn’t long left the dining room to return to his room. He said he had some important documents to co
mplete. Then someone left a message for him at reception and he seemed a little disturbed by it, so he left his key and went out. Hardly time to digest his roast beef and Yorkshires.’

  ‘What was the message?’

  Eastoe gave a professional frown. ‘At the Royal we’re not in the habit of reading personal mail of any description.’

  A pity, thought Brennan.

  The room held nothing of further interest. Brennan fastened the briefcase and tucked it under his arm. Eastoe seemed about to object then realised the futility of the exercise. His guest was dead, and Sergeant Brennan didn’t appear to be the sort of man who would take any notice of hotel protocol anyway.

  A cursory meeting with the curmudgeonly old man on reception told him nothing more: the note for Mr Tollet was left in an envelope on the front desk on Friday night when he was in the back office. No, he hadn’t seen who’d left it and what did it matter anyway?

  ‘I don’t know what the world’s comin’ to, Sergeant.’

  Brennan stood to one side as the pupils of George Street Elementary School swept through the school gates. As they whooped and yelled their way along the street, occasioning curses from a rag-and-bone man who was compelled to pull hard on the reins of his horse to avoid trampling a snotty-nosed child with its iron hooves, Brennan remembered well that feeling of elation, of freedom, albeit temporary, from the strictures and the scowls and the painful punishments they all endured.

  ‘They’re just letting off steam, Constable. Don’t you remember what home time was like?’

  Constable Jaggery frowned. ‘But I weren’t on about that lot,’ he said with a finger pointed at the vanishing hordes. ‘I were talkin’ about meladdo in yonder.’

  Brennan, accustomed by now to his constable’s reluctance to give people their proper name or title, understood. ‘You mean Mr Weston?’

  ‘Aye. If ’is lordship’s buggered about wi’ cups o’ tea t’same road ’e buggered about wi’ bottles o’ Scotch …’

  ‘What indeed is the world coming to, eh, Constable?’