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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Lancashire Detective
- Sprache: Englisch
1894, Wigan. Miss Dorothea Gadsworth is interviewed for a teaching vacancy at George Street Elementary, but is ultimately dismissed as a candidate. The following Monday morning, her body is discovered in a locked classroom with a note by her side. DS Michael Brennan is called in to investigate what appears to be a straightforward suicide, but his instincts tell him there is more to this case than meets the eye. With the door locked from the inside, staff members with plenty to hide and a student missing from the school, DS Brennan, aided by the scowling Constable Jaggery, wrestles with one of his most intricate investigations yet.
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Seitenzahl: 441
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
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ELEMENTARY MURDER
A. J. WRIGHT
For my younger brothers Billy and Stephen, who shared a great childhood with me in the ironically-named All Saints Grove. I should also like to dedicate this novel to all the friends I made at St Benedict’s RC Primary School, Hindley, and Blessed John Rigby Grammar School for Boys, Gathurst, Orrell.
If only we had a time machine …
CONTENTS
George Street Elementary School, Wigan Extracts from school log book September 1894 [Completed by Mr R. D. Weston, Headmaster]
Monday 10th September
Billy Kelly, Standard 6, given three swipes of the cane for spitting at Albert Parkinson in class. Later given six swipes of the cane for swearing at Miss Ryan in the playground. Absented himself from the school buildings at 3:20 p.m.
Tuesday 11th September
Mrs Kelly demanded interview with me. Her son unable to carry out his duties at Cartwright’s Rolling Mill on account of his hand. Mrs Kelly was informed firstly that the boy’s inability to collect scraps of wrought iron from the floor of the foundry was a direct consequence of his inability to behave himself in class and in the playground. Secondly, that in any case it was against the law for her to send her son to work at Cartwright’s or anywhere else. There ensued a most unseemly scene in front of girls’ drawing class. Police informed.
Wednesday 12th September
Albert Parkinson absent – third Wednesday in a row.
Friday 14th September
Letter received from school inspector based in Blackburn. He will visit next week (the 21st) which is also the date of the interview for new assistant teacher to replace Miss Rodley. We must make a concerted effort to impress upon the inspector how far the school, and especially Standards 1 and 2, has come in terms of spelling and arithmetic. Last year’s report spoke of ‘lamentably weak performances’ in those areas. We must also be sure to let the inspector know of our high hopes for sewing: it is hoped the successful candidate next week will build on the excellent work Miss Rodley has done with the Standard 6 girls in this area.
Monday 17th September
Arthur Clayton, Standard 2, and Edna Clayton, Standard 4, not in school all day. Attending the funeral of their father who was killed in the pit last week. I observed Miss Mason’s spelling lesson with Standard 1; our pupil-teacher is making very good progress and will doubtless be an asset to the profession.
Wednesday 19th September
The four Macfarlane children sent home on account of infant sibling suffering from scarlatina.
Thursday 20th September
Lady Crawford paid a most unexpected visit this morning to see the work of the sewing classes. Her Ladyship was most complimentary and gave a short address to the staff, graciously praising their work with ‘such inferior material’ and paying tribute to the efficient leadership enjoyed by the school.
Friday 21st September
A most curious day. The school inspector, Mr Henry Tollet, spent almost the whole day in school, during which time he attended several lessons. He was most impressed by Standard 4 boys’ geography, and he commented favourably on Standard 5 girls’ penmanship which, he observed with humour, flowed far more fluently than their speech! He expressed surprise and delight at the work of our pupil-teacher, Miss Mason. There were points of dissatisfaction, especially the behaviour of some of the children, and his subsequent report will enumerate in more detail his concerns. However, it is sufficient to say that on balance his observations weighed more heavily towards the favourable.
Unfortunately, the interview for a new teacher to replace Miss Rodley did not end satisfactorily. The applicant, a young lady named Miss Dorothea Gadsworth, had spoken well enough when with myself and some members of my staff, and in spite of an initial lack of firmness and distance when observed with Standard 6, she eventually acquitted herself quite well. Later, in the staffroom, she was overcome by a fainting spell, a circumstance made all the more awkward as it coincided with the entrance of Mr Tollet on one of his peregrinations around the school, accompanied by our school manager Reverend Charles Pearl and myself. Rev. Pearl and I were both in melancholy agreement that such sensibilities would be unsuitable for the hurly-burly of teaching at George Street and at her interview informed the young lady accordingly. She was most distressed.
I have arranged for a short staff meeting Monday morning before school to discuss the inspector’s preliminary (verbal) findings before the official report is issued.
Monday 24th September
It is with the greatest regret that I must record the dreadful events of this morning. Upon unlocking the school buildings and prior to firing up the stoves, our caretaker, John Prendergast, made a terrible discovery. In Standard 5 classroom, he discovered the body of a young woman. I was shocked to discover that it was the body of Miss Dorothea Gadsworth, whom we had last seen on Friday and whom we were compelled to dismiss as a candidate for Miss Rodley’s position.
The police were sent for and I took the decision to close the classroom. Standard 5 were placed with Standard 4 for the day. To a very great extent the pupils behaved with commendable gravity, with only a few exceptions who were dealt with as befitted the solemnity of the occasion. I spoke at length with the police detective who was most impressed by the way the school had comported itself on this most unfortunate of days. The aforementioned detective conducted several interviews with members of staff at the end of the school day and he complimented the manner in which the school had risen to the challenge of a very trying day.
CHAPTER ONE
‘What the bloody ’ell’s up wi’ that lot?’
The concerned citizen had paused on her way to the shops when she heard what she thought was a full-scale riot emanating from the schoolyard of George Street Elementary School.
The old woman she was addressing lifted her shawl a little and glanced across the street, shaking her head.
‘Should be inside an’ learnin’ summat,’ she said. ‘Goin’ to the bloody dogs, that place. They let ’em run wild. I’m glad my young uns are out of it. Didn’t learn ’em owt anyroad.’
‘It’s makin’ the little buggers stay till they’re eleven,’ an older man added as he approached the two women. ‘When I was their age I were down t’bloody pit pushin’ tubs.’
As if to emphasise his disgust at the recent raising of the school leaving age, he spat forcibly into the road before shuffling his way into town.
The two women watched him go, then, with a sniff, returned their attention to the unholy racket from the schoolyard, where they could see several children violently shoving each other in what seemed to be a desperate attempt to climb up to the windows of the school building facing the street.
The old woman chuckled.
‘At least when my lot went yonder they fought like buggery to leave the place. Them little sods look like they’re fightin’ to get back in!’
‘Eyup!’
The first woman elbowed her companion and nodded towards the upper end of George Street, where two police constables, standing either side of a man in plain clothes, were marching purposefully along the pavement. All three had grim expressions on their faces.
‘Some bugger’s for it!’ she said. ‘Probably ’im.’
She raised a gnarled finger and pointed at the sign outside the building, its lettering faded and the paint flaking where the wood was rotting:
George Street Elementary School
Mr Richard D. Weston, Headmaster
She was slumped near the door, one arm stretched out as if she had been reaching for something, while her other arm lay loosely by her side. She was wearing a small hat that rested slightly askew on tight curls, and the small outdoor coat was still buttoned tightly at the front to highlight her trim waist. Nearby, there was a pool of congealed vomit, and stuck in the centre a single sheet of paper. Fighting back a wave of nausea, Detective Sergeant Michael Brennan stooped low and carefully plucked it from the rancid mess. Although the paper was damp, he could still make out the only thing written there: in spiderish letters the word FAILED.
He stood up and turned to the man standing in the doorway. The caretaker, John Prendergast, had found the body early that morning, as he opened the building. He was around forty, with thick greying hair and a scar down his left cheek. He stood there now, staring at the woman’s body with a mixture of pity and revulsion on his face.
‘You say the door was locked?’ Brennan asked him.
The man nodded and wiped his mouth. ‘Aye. It were. When I looked through the glass in the door an’ saw her lyin’ there I had to break the lock.’
‘You didn’t have a key?’
He shook his head vigorously. ‘These classrooms are never locked. I keep the keys in the storeroom back yonder.’ He pointed towards the end of the corridor and a small door that lay half open. ‘I ran back there for the key but it weren’t where it should be.’
‘So you broke in?’
‘Aye. I didn’t know what else to do. She might’ve been alive still for all I knew. I thought she might be drunk.’
Brennan looked around the room. ‘Was the door locked from the inside?’
‘Aye.’
‘How do you know? It could have been locked and just left like that, leaving the woman still inside.’
As if by some sleight of hand, John Prendergast pulled something from his pocket. When he held it out towards him, Brennan could see it was a key.
‘That’s the key to this room, is it?’
‘It is.’
‘I thought you said you couldn’t find it?’
‘I never said that. It was found after I broke in. It were on t’floor over yonder. Reverend Pearl spotted it when he came in.’ He pointed to a space behind the door.
‘Are you saying the door was locked from inside?’
‘Aye. Key must’ve dropped out when I broke t’lock.’
Brennan gave a long sigh. ‘What did you do after you found she was dead?’
‘I went for Mr Weston. He came along, with all the others followin’…’
‘Others?’
‘Aye. All the staff. And the vicar. They’d got in early for a meetin’, after the inspector’s visit last Friday. Seein’ what he’d had to say in his report, probably. Anyroad, when Mr Weston saw for himself, he asked the reverend to escort ’em all back and said I were to make the room secure. Though how I was supposed to do that wi’ yon lock hangin’ off … I just shoved a bench in front of the door. That’s when he must’ve sent for you lot.’
Brennan thanked him. ‘I’ll need to speak with you later, Mr Prendergast. But that’ll be all for now.’
When he’d gone, Constable Jaggery, who had been standing outside the classroom with the other constable to ward off any prying eyes, came in and gazed down at the body.
‘Why do they do it, Sergeant?’
‘Do what?’
‘Suicide. She seems pretty enough.’
‘Let’s see if we can get some answers, then, shall we?’ With that, he told Jaggery to stand outside the main entrance, while Constable Hardy waited for the wagon to arrive for its melancholy cargo.
In the normal run of things, Richard Weston regarded his study as his inner sanctum, a sacred place where he dispensed the necessary punishments, oversaw the work of both scholars and teachers, and drew up his weekly list of materials to be introduced to the children for their Object Lessons as advocated by Mr Currie and his worthy tome The Principles and Practice of Common-School Education. In such a venerated place, he ruled.
Today, however, he sat in his study feeling rather unvenerated, and tried hard to keep his hands still. His face was pale, a consequence of standing over a body and, with his caretaker watching on, ascertaining that indeed the woman was dead and declaring this was a matter for the police.
‘Suicide is the most heinous of crimes, in my opinion. A selfish, wicked act.’
‘And you are convinced it was suicide?’ asked Brennan, sitting opposite him.
‘Well,’ he began with the same patient tone he would use with a backward child, ‘there’s the small matter of the note she left.’
‘Of course,’ said Brennan, placing a hand against his inside pocket, where the slip of paper lay folded inside his handkerchief.
‘Added to the fact that she locked herself in the room so she wouldn’t be disturbed.’
‘I see.’ Brennan thought for a few seconds then said, ‘Perhaps you could tell me who the woman is and how she came to be found in a classroom?’
Mr Weston leant forward and picked up a pen, turning it around and examining the dry nib.
‘As to your second question, I have no answer, Sergeant. Mr Prendergast, our caretaker, assures me he locked the school on Friday night – only two doors, front and rear. How the woman got into the school is beyond me.’
Beyond the closed door of the headmaster’s study, they could hear the shuffle of feet along the corridor where the woman’s body was being carried in the cheap wooden coffin to the wagon waiting outside. They must have opened the large double doors that formed the entrance to the main school buildings, for immediately from inside the headmaster’s study, they could hear the loud screams of nervous and excited children who would be gathering round the coffin eager to steal a glance and terrified of the consequences.
‘Get back you snivellin’ little sods!’
Brennan smiled thinly. He could rely on Constable Jaggery, whom he had left on duty in the schoolyard, to maintain the safety, if not the dignity, of the melancholy transportation. He looked at the headmaster’s bowed head and gave an audibly provocative sigh.
Finally the headmaster began to elaborate.
‘Her name is Miss Dorothea Gadsworth. She was here in school on Friday.’
‘Why?’
Mr Weston took a deep breath, as if he were about to dive in a freezing stretch of river, and said, ‘She had been invited for interview. We are soon to have a vacancy, you see, as Miss Rodley is leaving us. She is engaged to Reverend Pearl, our school manager, and as such it would have been inadvisable for Miss Rodley to continue in her post.’
‘Now, tell me what happened on Friday.’
With a frown, he looked up at Brennan and said, ‘From an inauspicious start, everything was going quite well, Sergeant. Until the poor woman fainted.’
Dorothea Gadsworth stood at the front of the class – Standard 6 – and cleared her throat before speaking. Thirty-seven pupils – girls andboys – stood before her behind desks that had seen better days. Their faces were, for the most part, quite clean, although Dorothea could make out smears of dirt just below the hairline on many of the boys. Occasionally there was a chorus of sniffling, and she noticed several of them using their sleeves to wipe their noses. She had been told beforehand of the nature of this particular group – ‘prone to silliness’ had been the view expressed by Miss Jane Rodley, the teacher whose position she hoped to take – and so she adopted the stern expression they had been encouraged to develop at training college.
‘Good morning, Standard 6.’
There was a ragged chorus of ‘Good morning, miss’ mainly from the girls. The boys stole furtive glances at each other and some covered their mouths to hide their sniggering, unaware that such an action served only to highlight, not conceal, such rudeness.
‘Now you may sit. In SILENCE!’
Although she had a slight, demure figure, her voice was loud and forceful. It had the desired effect, for now the whole class were sitting quietly behind their desks.
‘My name is Miss Gadsworth, and I am here to teach you arithmetic this morning.’
There were the beginnings of a communal groan that were immediately stifled when the schoolroom door opened and the headmaster, Mr Weston, entered, followed by the school inspector, Mr Tollet. The children all rose and stared directly ahead, their faces now expressionless, a contrast with the rather apprehensive frown that had suddenly appeared on Miss Gadsworth’s forehead.
‘Sit!’
Mr Weston’s voice was hard and splintery, rather like the long cane he carried under his arm.
It took Miss Gadsworth a few seconds to re-compose herself, but she lifted her head in a superior manner (again following theguidelines set by her training) and leant forward on the teacher’s desk in what she imagined was an attitude of authority.
‘As you are no doubt aware, I am new to the school and would like to spend a minute getting to know you. I am told you are a very bright set of children.’
There was a sharp cough from Mr Weston, who had by now moved to the back of the room, Mr Tollet beside him.
Miss Gadsworth moved away from the front of the classroom and began to walk between the rows of desks. She raised a hand and pointed to a small girl seated halfway along.
‘Name?’
‘Elizabeth Paxford, miss,’ the girl replied in a faint voice.
‘Elizabeth. I want you to tell me what you want to be when you grow up.’
The girl looked at her curiously.
‘Do you understand me, girl?’
‘Miss?’
‘Well? What do you want to be?’
It was clear that the girl was under great pressure, for her cheeks reddened and she looked down at her desk.
Undaunted, Miss Gadsworth pointed to a young boy seated at the back of the class, a few feet away from Mr Tollet.
‘You. What is your name?’
‘Albert Parkinson.’
‘Miss,’ she added as a reminder of his manners.
‘Miss Albert Parkinson,’ came the instant reply to an accompaniment of sniggers.
The hopeful applicant took a deep breath, glanced to the rear of the classroom where the headmaster and school inspector sat with expressionless faces.
‘And what do you want to be when you grow up, Albert?’
The boy looked at a red-haired boy near him and said loudly, ‘A carrot, miss. Just like Billy.’
There was general laughter, which threatened to reach a riotous crescendo until Mr Weston stepped forward and gave the joker a resounding slap around the head.
The headmaster gave a paternalistic sigh.
‘She made two basic mistakes, Sergeant. After the lesson – which went off quite well after that wicked boy’s attempts to derail it – I told Miss Gadsworth that she must always remain at the front of the classroom, either seated at her table or standing behind it. That provides a commanding focus of attention, and she can see at a glance any child who fidgets or otherwise misbehaves. A lighthouse, I told her, never moves but shines its light in all directions. A warning and a guide. That is what she must be. Secondly, a teacher must never try to make conversation with the children. They aren’t her friends, they are her charges. A lighthouse may benefit all within its compass, shall we say, but it never encourages vessels to sail close. I mean, asking them what they wish to be? It encourages dissatisfaction. Besides which, the question was superfluous.’
‘Why?’ Brennan asked.
‘For the simple reason that there is very little doubt about these children’s futures. Mapped out, Sergeant. The girls will work in the mills and get married and have children of their own, or they’ll work on the pit brow screening coal and wearing those ridiculous trousers. The boys will go down the mines or work at the iron works. One or two might even run away to join the army. Why encourage flights of unreachable fancy?’
Brennan had a fleeting image of his own six-year-old son Barry and the dreams he had spoken of.
‘She should have made them recite their times tables,’ the headmaster went on. ‘Much more productive. And harmonious.’
Brennan shifted in his chair. He wasn’t here for a lesson on lessons.
‘You said Miss Gadsworth fainted?’
‘Yes, indeed. After her lesson I left her in the staffroom and asked Miss Rodley – whose class she would have been taking over – to speak with her and give her some words of encouragement. Miss Mason and Mr Edgar were already there – they are in charge of Standards 1 and 5 respectively – and they made a very pleasant table fortified by tea and coffee. By this time it was playtime and all the children were outdoors. The boys in their playground and the girls in theirs, of course. Miss Gadsworth seemed to be getting along with everyone. So I left to have a word with our school manager Reverend Pearl, who had arrived a few minutes earlier and whom I had left looking after Mr Tollet.’
‘And who’s Mr Tollet in charge of?’
Mr Weston gave a wry smile.
‘I suppose in a way the answer is all of us.’
Brennan frowned, so Mr Weston explained.
‘Mr Tollet is our school inspector. Occasionally we’re graced with an inspection. It was just unfortunate that poor Miss Gadsworth chose the moment we entered the staffroom to faint. Mr Tollet was most gracious – indeed, most concerned for her welfare. He ordered her to be laid flat on the floor of the staffroom and the windows opened. She recovered enough to ask if she might be excused for half an hour to take some air.’ He gave a half-smile. ‘She hadn’t spent much time in this town, obviously.’
Ignoring the condescending attitude to his town, Brennan asked, ‘She left the school?’
‘And returned within the half hour, looking a little more composed. Mr Tollet later assured me that the incident would form no part of his report. Out of respect for his position I asked if he wished to sit in on the interview later in the day. I would have welcomed his views on the girl. But he pleaded a prior engagement. Of course by that time …’
The headmaster spread his hands open and left the rest of the sentence unspoken.
‘By that time, what?’
‘Well, considering she was an applicant for a position here, it would have been unseemly to confirm her appointment.’
‘Why?’
Weston seemed to take umbrage at the question. ‘Apart from her initial lack of firmness in the classroom, and although she acquitted herself quite ably for the remainder of the lesson, it would have been folly itself to appoint someone who fainted in front of a school inspector. What would that say about our judgement of character, Sergeant? The Lord Himself knows what she would have done if he had agreed to stay for the interview. Perhaps a more histrionic attack of the vapours?’
Brennan, who found himself now feeling a certain sympathy for the deceased, shook his head. Mr Weston took that as an affirmation.
‘I would be grateful if you could give me a list of all those staff who came into contact with Miss Gadsworth.’
‘Might I ask why, Sergeant?’
‘Because I wish to speak with them.’
The headmaster flushed. ‘What I meant was, why do you wish to speak with them?’
‘Because I have a desire to,’ Brennan replied with a smile.
The expression on Mr Weston’s face contained elements of shock, outrage and protest. Clearly, he was unaccustomed to such prevarication in his own office. When he spoke, his lips barely moved.
‘I shall furnish you with a list, Sergeant. Of course. Though as to why you should wish to prolong this unfortunate incident … However, may I ask that you speak with my staff when school finishes for the day at five o’clock? The school is already facing disruption.’
Brennan considered the request and gave a nod. ‘And the address of the school inspector, Mr Tollet.’
Mr Weston stood up. ‘Is that really necessary?’
‘Part of the investigation. No stone unturned.’
‘But an investigation into what, for goodness’ sake? The poor woman was obviously distraught at failing her interview and came back here to take her own life. There is absolutely no need to bring Mr Tollet into this. No need whatsoever.’
Brennan, too, stood up. ‘We’ll see. And now I’ll set about my business while you set about yours. I can hear the children getting restless.’
As he opened the door he paused and turned. ‘Just one more thing, Mr Weston. Out of interest.’
‘Oh?’
‘Once your caretaker found the woman’s body and reported his gruesome discovery to you, why didn’t you close the entire school? It would have made our job all the easier.’
The headmaster smiled at last. ‘My responsibility is to look after the pupils in my charge, Sergeant, not clear the way for what appears to be unnecessary officiousness. Besides, letting them loose at nine in the morning would create far more work for you and your constables than you could ever imagine. Think of a pack of monkeys swinging around the market hall, not to mention the howl of anger from parents who’d got rid of them till midday. I took the decision with the full support of Reverend Pearl who was here this morning.’
‘So I gather. He took the staff back to the staffroom.’
‘Yes. The sight of that poor girl was most distressing.’
‘The reverend didn’t stay?’
‘Why should he? Once we’d secured the room, there was no reason for him to stay. He had only come to discuss the inspector’s visit, and we could hardly do that with a dead body down the corridor. Besides, he had parish duties to perform.’
Brennan grunted and stroked his moustache. ‘This afternoon will do, Mr Weston.’
‘For what?’
‘The list of people who met Miss Gadsworth. If you could ask your staff to remain behind when school ends.’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, and that will be a good time to pick up Mr Tollet’s address.’
Brennan could see the man’s hands were now shaking as he leant on his desk for support, and he was almost through the door when the headmaster called out, ‘You never answered my question. An investigation into what?’
‘The circumstances of Miss Gadsworth’s death.’
‘But I thought she had taken her own life. Surely the evidence …’
‘A possibility, of course. And from the blue colouring of her skin and lips I’d say it was poison of some kind.’
‘There you are then.’
‘But I have some questions first, Mr Weston. Before I can accuse the poor woman of suicide.’
‘Questions? What sort of questions?’
‘The sort that need answering. And if you’ll …’
The detective’s sentence was left unfinished. There was a sudden commotion from outside. And in the midst of a tremendous cheering and screaming from what sounded like the hordes from hell, he could hear Constable Jaggery’s ferocious roar, threatening to rattle the arse of anyone who threw another thing.
Albert Parkinson was ten years old. Along with the rest of the school, he’d watched as the policemen carried out a long wooden box with grim expressions on their faces. It was obvious what the box contained. Some of the girls had begun to whimper, prompting the lads to sneer at them and warn them that the body in the box would rise up any second and eat them.
The girls had screamed and hugged each other for protection.
Soft sods.
Every Wednesday, instead of going to school, he helped his uncle deliver coal, heaving hundredweight bags from the back of the cart and dragging them along the back alleyways to make his delivery. It was grimy work, coal dust often billowing from the badly-tied bags, and gave him a cough which he never seemed able to get rid of. The work, though, gave him a sturdy physique, which, along with his usual surliness, meant the other pupils at George Street kept a wary distance from him, unless he saw fit to include them in his occasional bouts of mischief. In which case many of them became his temporary if reluctant allies, unwilling to endure his wrath if they refused him. He took particular delight in ridiculing Billy Kelly, who was the only one in the class with red hair, and who was also the only one to stand up to him. Not that it did him much good: such defiance usually ended with Albert triumphant and Billy in tears. But Billy had always been told by his dad to fight back if anyone picked on him, and he knew that any reports of cowardice would get back to him – Billy was much more afraid of his dad’s temper than Albert Parkinson’s thuggery. Sometimes he even gave a good account of himself. Trouble was, Albert’s strength far outweighed Billy’s courage.
But Billy hadn’t shown up at school this morning, a fact that required some elaboration as they waited for permission to enter the school building.
‘Cos I snotted him Friday night. Ran off like a mouse, skrikin’. That’s why ’e daren’t show ’is face, the gingerknob bastard. That right, Joe?’
In such scathing tones Albert dismissed his arch-rival’s absence: there was room for only one cock of the school.
The other boys looked at Albert’s right-hand pal, Joe Marshall, a small ferret-faced child with a permanently glistening nose and a fierce temper. None of the others had witnessed the altercation, and it fell upon young Joe to offer confirmation.
‘Aye. Like a mouse. Albert snotted ’im all right.’
There was a communal groan. It was a great pity they’d missed all the fun.
With this most recent testimonial to his ruthlessness, Albert urged several of the boys to leave the school entrance, where the large policeman stood guard scowling at them like a gargoyle, and follow him to the rear of the building, to the trapdoor that led down into the cellar where the coal was stored for the classroom stoves. The lock on the door was faulty. Everyone knew that. The plan was simple: each boy was to fill his fists with lumps of coal and return to the front of the building where they would hurl their missiles at the uniformed bully stopping them from entering.
He lifted the trapdoor and ushered them down. Once their clogs were crunching the coal beneath them, he gave his rallying call to his troops. ‘It’s our bloody school. He cawn’t stop us gooin’ in. Fat bastard.’
Some of them nodded, more in agreement with his depiction of Constable Jaggery than their leader’s uncharacteristic desire to enter the building. Outside was much more fun.
‘Besides,’ Albert added, standing atop the mound of coal and now appealing to their sense of family loyalty. ‘Them bastards battered me dad in the lockout last year. Be bloody good if we clod some o’ these at ’em!’
He held up the lumps of coal in his fists. They all nodded at the retributive fitness of such missiles, each one of them mindful of the darkest period in their lives the previous year when the five-month miners’ strike almost brought the town to its knees, and hunger ran rampant. Several of their fathers had been involved in various scuffles with the police, and they had long, vengeful memories. But it was the hunger they remembered the most.
He watched the others clamber up the coal pile and into the bright morning air and followed them more slowly.
He gripped the two lumps of coal and felt the black grit bite into the palms of his hands. As he strolled purposefully now towards the front of the school, a smile slowly spread across his face.
The three men moved with exaggerated slowness, weighed down by the cumbersome protective clothing they were forced to wear. Each of them was clad in thick iron boots, barely visible beneath the wide leather aprons and the shin guards that restricted their movements as they approached the strangely-shaped puddling furnace. The heat in the large workshop at the Cartwright’s Rolling Mill was intense.
Tommy Kelly, the principal shingler of the three, felt the ferocity of the furnace’s heat more than the others, not least because of how he was seething inside. He cut a large, almost superhuman figure beneath the clothing, an impression enhanced by the square mask of iron with its narrow slits for his eyes that made his head appear to sprout impossibly from his broad shoulders and bypass altogether the bull neck that lay beneath.
It was Tommy’s job, now that the pig iron inside the furnace had finally become molten, to damp down the fire that had burnt with such ferociousness before stirring the iron with a puddling bar in order to allow as much air to reach it as possible, while at the same time ensuring it kept well clear of the carbon from the flames.
He forced the bar into the well of the furnace with more than usual vigour and scuttled it around to disperse the molten iron, feeling the sweat pour down his forehead and into his eyes. He cursed out loud at his inability to wipe away the salty sting that blurred his vision.
The two other men, standing a few yards behind him with their heads free of the stifling iron headgear, gave each other knowing glances. They knew better than to speak to Tommy when he was in such a mood, although they knew full well what was causing it. It had nothing to do with the heat, or the strained effort it needed to puddle the iron sufficiently. No, they’d been told at the beginning of their shift that morning what had put the big fella in such a ‘heat’.
‘Shithouses!’ he had said to them as they booked in at seven that morning.
‘Who, Tommy?’ one of them had asked in a voice that carried a slight tremble of uncertainty.
‘They’ll not speak to my missis like that again in a fuckin’ hurry! Sendin’ the bloody police round cos she made a stink.’
The others had looked at each other with smiles of relief, happy in the knowledge that it would be the pig iron, and not they, who would suffer the big man’s wrath.
Later, as the three of them sat in the small yard outside the workhouse and ate their snap, he seemed to have brought his temper under control.
‘Can be a little swine, our Billy, I know that. But yon bloody headmaster’s gettin’ too big for his boots. Needs choppin’ down.’
‘They’re all t’same,’ said Gilbert Barlow. ‘Put ’em in a suit an’ they reckon they’re a cut above the likes of us.’
‘Aye,’ Fred Dunn added. ‘He wipes his arse like the rest of us.’
‘I’ll wipe his arse wi’ me puddlin’ bar if he talks to my Edith like that again.’
Then all three of them laughed at the vision big Tommy’s words had conjured up. After a few minutes’ silence, the big man spoke again, this time with a surprisingly low voice, as if he were afraid of being overheard.
‘T’wife reckons that’s why he’s done it, all this trouble at school.’
‘Done what, Tommy?’
‘Our Billy. T’wife reckons ’e’s ’ad enough.’
‘Aye, but what’s ’e done?’
Tommy Kelly swirled a mouthful of cold tea around his mouth to clear the remains of his egg butty, spat it out and watched as it soaked into the ground.
‘Our Billy buggered off Friday night. Not seen the little sod since.’
CHAPTER TWO
One of the problems of meeting with the Chief Constable of Wigan, Captain Bell, was the unpredictability of his moods. Normally a stern, rather humourless figure who ruled the force with a military firmness, he nevertheless drifted off occasionally into a more reflective state of mind. Today was one such occasion.
Detective Sergeant Brennan had given his superior the bare outlines of the unfortunate discovery at George Street Elementary School and had informed him of his intention to regard the death as suspicious until he could prove otherwise. But instead of a cursory ‘Carry on’ or even an expression of doubt as to the desirability of continuing with the investigation, he merely sat back and placed his hands together on his chest, a dreamy glaze in his eyes.
‘When I was in India, visiting Jeypore, Sergeant, I took a stroll in the public gardens.’
‘Really, sir?’
‘A fascinating place. There’s an educational museum there. Believe it or not, it’s housed in a building they call the Albert Hall.’
He paused, waiting for the amused glint in Brennan’s eye that never came.
‘There’s a department of crime in that museum, you see? They have little puppets, very life-like they are too. They reenact every crime you can think of. From drunkenness to murder most foul. They even have models showing the most efficient way of disposing of a murdered person. One way was to cut the poor chap up into little bits and drop them in a postbox.’
‘Ingenious, sir.’
‘Evil beyond measure, Sergeant.’ Captain Bell’s eyes flashed a cautionary glance in his direction. ‘Another group of figures shows a Thug throttling a British soldier. The poor fellow’s face is purple like a bursting plum.’
Brennan, who couldn’t think of anything remotely appropriate to say, kept silent.
‘The point I’m coming to, Sergeant Brennan, is this. In the museum’s courtyard there’s an inscription – a saying of Akbar’s.’
‘Akbar, sir?’
‘The one buried at Sikandra. The Emperor.’
‘Oh that one.’
Captain Bell blinked but carried on. ‘It read, “I never saw anyone lost on a straight road”.’ He paused, waiting for the wisdom of the maxim to permeate his sergeant’s brain.
‘I see, sir.’
The chief constable unfurled his fingers. ‘Quite plainly you do not see. I was merely trying to point out that you have a tendency to deviate into all manner of byroads and pathways when the simplest way is forward. Forward on a straight road.’
‘You wish me to accept the woman’s death as suicide?’
‘What makes you think otherwise? The note she left would seem to be conclusive. Her failure to secure a position. The shame of going home jobless. The inescapable fact that she locked herself in the classroom so she wouldn’t be disturbed. What more evidence do you want?’
‘It’s nothing very definite, sir. It just seems strange that Miss Gadsworth should choose to end her life in a school rather than the confines of a hotel room. Why go back there at all? And how did she manage to enter a locked building? Furthermore, how did she know where the classroom keys were kept?’
‘She wished to torture herself in the place where she suffered rejection,’ Captain Bell offered with a frown of understanding and conveniently ignoring the subsequent questions altogether. ‘The surroundings gave her the impetus she needed to do the deed. Poison, you suspect?’
‘Indeed, sir. The signs were unmistakable, though we’ll see what the post-mortem tells us.’
‘Well then.’
‘I’m still rather curious as to how she got into the school in the first place. According to the headmaster, there were no indications of a forced entry.’
Captain Bell looked through his window for an answer. ‘Loose window?’ he suggested with little conviction.
‘A possibility, sir. I suppose.’ He examined his fingers before adding, ‘And another thing. Why did she faint?’
‘Faint?’
Brennan explained.
‘Isn’t it obvious? She wasn’t up to the job. And seeing a school inspector walk in … well, shrinking violets don’t like the heat of the sun.’
It wasn’t a saying Brennan had heard before, but he gave a short nod as if he had.
‘Well, Sergeant. It’s clear you haven’t finished your enquiries yet.’
‘No, sir.’
‘But I wouldn’t want you to spend an unprofitable length of time on what appears to be a sad case of a woman scorned. Not by love, on this occasion, but by her own inadequacy. Very sad, but if people took their own life whenever they met a rejection, where would that leave us, eh? A melancholy mountain of bodies, Sergeant.’ He shook his head as if the vision were set clear before him. ‘But remember what I said. The straight road, Sergeant. The straight road.’
Brennan took the wave of his thin hand and the slow shaking of the head as signs of dismissal. He stood up and left his superior gazing through his window, but whether he saw the tram shuttling its way up King Street, some resplendent garden in India, or a pile of rotting suicidal corpses it was difficult to say.
By the time Brennan and Constable Jaggery returned to George Street later that afternoon, a sizeable crowd had gathered. Pupils, home for their dinners, had spoken of classrooms filled to the rafters with bits of dead bodies, and word had got round the town that something serious had taken place at the school. Passers-by, curious as to what was going on, had been given increasingly gruesome distortions of the grim truth through the school railings by children eager to show they were at the centre of events.
A woman wi’ ’er eyes cut out …
I ’eard she’d been etten by rats …
Aye, ’er ears an’ nose bitten off …
And ’er ’ead …
Wi’ ’er innards all over t’floor.
Most of the parents were at work – down the mine or in the mill – but others had taken their place and muttered darkly of the poor little buggers being taught in blood-stained classrooms, and what the hellfire did that headmaster think he was doing letting a murderer loose near the littluns anyroad?
The two policemen ignored the more salacious questions hurled at them. Brennan paused at the railings to make a short and terse statement.
‘A young woman has died. She isn’t a teacher at the school. If any of you are waiting for your children, they’ll be out at the usual time.’
There were mutterings, but the way Constable Jaggery clutched his truncheon and faced them with his considerable bulk subdued the more vociferous.
Once inside the building they were immediately met by the headmaster, who, Brennan supposed, had been spying out for their arrival. Along the arched corridor were a number of classrooms, each with its door firmly shut. From one classroom – the nearest – they could hear the lacklustre chanting of times tables.
One times two is two
Two times two is four
Three times two is six
Four times two is eight
Five times two is ten
As they walked along the corridor towards the headmaster’s room, Brennan overheard a loud clatter from another classroom. He glanced through the upper window of the closed door and saw a class of around thirty very young children seated at their desks, all of them watching with interest a confrontation involving a young girl – around five years old – who was standing defiantly before her teacher. The teacher herself seemed very young and looked uncertain what to do.
‘I said pick it up, Sadie Gorman.’
‘No!’
‘You have broken your slate!’
‘You said take away six from three.’ The young girl’s voice rose in anger.
‘I said no such thing. I told you to take three from six.’
‘You can’t take six from three.’
Mr Weston gave an apologetic cough. ‘Excuse me, Detective Sergeant. I may have to intervene. Miss Mason is a pupil-teacher. An excellent one, but not quite the finished product yet, I’m afraid. Should have another teacher in with her but as we’re so short-staffed …’
Before Brennan could reply, the headmaster burst into the room with all the force of a gale. The pupils immediately stood up. Brennan saw the young teacher swirl round to face Mr Weston. He noticed the glimmer of tears in her eyes as she briefly turned her face to the window. Her eyes widened in what looked like shock when she caught sight of Constable Jaggery’s uniform.
A brief exchange took place between herself and the headmaster. After a few seconds of listening with her head bowed low, Miss Mason gave a sharp nod and, with the presence of such reinforcement to support her, she raised her head and once more instructed young Sadie to pick up the cracked slate. The pupil gave a furtive look in the headmaster’s direction and then stooped low to do as she was told.
‘I trust you will deal with this she-devil in the appropriate manner, Miss Mason?’ said Mr Weston in a loud voice that carried to the back of the room. ‘Violence, vandalism and defiance – an unholy trinity indeed in one so young, Gorman.’ He then glared at the rest of the class as if they were somehow equally to blame. ‘Today of all days!’ he said darkly. ‘Today of all days!’
With that he breezed past the tearful Miss Mason and slammed the door shut behind him.
‘No idea how to behave,’ was his only comment to the two policemen as he led the way to his study at the end of the corridor.
Brennan wasn’t sure whom he was referring to.
The hand bell was clanging at the far end of the corridor, the boy from Standard 6 heaving it from shoulder to knee with great gusto. Within seconds there was a communal scraping of chairs; doors the length of the corridor were flung open and children of various age and size came rushing out. As they neared the outside doors held open by the caretaker, the noise increased until the playground became a frantic blur of bodies running, jumping, scuffling and kicking their way to the school gates, where a larger than normal group of onlookers – including some parents – were waiting to greet and interrogate them.
Richard Weston stood at the window and gazed out at the noisier than usual scene in the playground. He refrained from commenting, however, and turned to face Detective Sergeant Brennan, who was scrutinising the sheet of paper he had presented to him.
‘I see Mr Tollet, the school inspector, lives in Blackburn.’
‘That is his address, yes. It is what you asked for.’
‘It certainly is. I see that the vicar isn’t down to speak with me this evening?’
‘Unfortunately, according to Miss Rodley, Reverend Pearl has other commitments to carry out, so he is unavailable for interview. I’m sure you can make alternative arrangements?’
Brennan grunted his assent.
‘You’ll notice that I have placed Miss Mason first on the list, Sergeant Brennan. She is, as I explained, a pupil-teacher, and she has an hour’s study from five o’clock until six. I am helping to prepare her for the Queen’s Scholarship Examination.’
‘What’s that then?’ Constable Jaggery, who was standing by the door in readiness for his role as usher, looked puzzled. ‘She’s a teacher, ain’t she? Thought examinations were done with by the time you pick up a stick o’ chalk.’
Mr Weston gave a condescending smile. ‘At the moment she is merely a pupil-teacher. Until four years ago she was herself a pupil in this school. Then she became a monitor. One of the very brightest children I have ever met, despite her rather harrowing background. The man who called himself her father was a profligate and the only favour he ever did for her was to die. The poor girl’s mother died, too, soon afterwards, and her grandmother has taken sole responsibility for her upbringing. She has few friends now – her former classmates seem to have frozen her out because she chooses to work in a school instead of the cotton mill. And yet, despite all that, the girl shows great promise. In other schools they allow the children to address pupil-teachers by their Christian name. You may notice that does not happen here. She is always Miss Mason. Once we iron out some of her verbal lapses, and if she passes the Queen’s Scholarship with a first class, she will be able to go to training college for two years. With my assistance.’
‘She might be wed by then,’ Constable Jaggery added. He was about to make further pronouncements on the general desirability of women to become mothers at the earliest opportunity when he caught sight of Brennan glowering at him.
‘Very well,’ said Brennan. ‘If you’ll be so kind as to bring the child in, I can begin.’
‘She isn’t a child, Sergeant Brennan. For the purposes of her standing in this establishment she is not to be referred to as anything other than a teacher, albeit a pupil one.’
With that, he left the room.
Constable Jaggery gave a chuckle. ‘Touchy bugger, Sergeant.’
‘A man under pressure, Constable. It’s not something they train you for in headmaster school. Finding dead bodies in a classroom.’
‘Didn’t know they ’ad schools for ’eadmasters an’ all,’ said Jaggery with a shake of the head. Humour, unless of the vulgar and violent sort, often passed him by.
A few minutes later, they heard mumbled whispers from the corridor, before the door swung open and Mr Weston escorted the young pupil-teacher into the study.
Brennan stood and moved around the desk to sit in the headmaster’s chair while indicating with an outstretched hand that Miss Mason should sit facing him.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, Miss Mason,’ Brennan began. But before he could go any further there was an irate cough from Mr Weston, who was glowering at him.
‘Ah,’ said Brennan, understanding at once the reason for the interruption. ‘I won’t be occupying your chair for long. And as you won’t be staying …’
‘What?’
‘It’s better I speak to the staff alone.’
‘But they are my staff, Sergeant. They may need support.’
Constable Jaggery, standing in his usual position by the door, also gave a cough, but its genesis lay more in concern for the headmaster’s well-being.
‘They’re answering a few questions, Mr Weston, not facing a mob.’
During the brief exchange, Miss Mason kept her eyes cast down. It was clear she had never heard the headmaster being spoken to in such a way.
Constable Jaggery held the door open.
‘In that case I shall be in the staffroom. Unless, of course, you have an objection to that, too?’
‘None whatsoever.’
With that, the headmaster left with his head held high.
Once Jaggery had closed the door, Brennan leant forward and gave Miss Mason a reassuring smile.
‘As I said, just a few questions, Miss Mason. I’m trying to build up a picture of what exactly happened to the unfortunate young woman who was found this morning.’
At last she raised her head. Close up, Brennan was struck by how young the girl looked. She’s really no more than a child herself, he reflected, and recalled the look of panic in her eyes when faced with a naughty child and the wrath of the headmaster. Although her hair was tightly braided, a few strands had slipped free, giving her a somewhat harassed appearance. She was pretty, though, he thought.
‘It was horrible,’ she began in a low voice. ‘I only caught a glimpse of her lyin’ there this mornin’ but … after seein’ her so full of life only last Friday …’
He gave her time to recover. For such a young girl, the sight of death in such incongruous circumstances, a room normally associated with all the spirited exuberance of life, must indeed have been a shock.
‘Mr Weston said she’d took her own life,’ she whispered, her words low and tremulous.
‘Well no one knows that for sure,’ Brennan said gently. ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
The girl frowned. ‘But if you find out she didn’t take her own life, that’d mean …’
He held up a hand. ‘Let’s see what we can find out, eh?’
She gave a short nod, clasping her hands together.
‘The woman’s name is Dorothea Gadsworth,’ he began. ‘She was here on Friday to be interviewed for a position in the school.’
‘Yes. I was introduced to her then.’
‘What can you tell me about her?’
The question seemed to flummox the girl.
‘I only met her proper that once. At playtime.’
‘Did you speak with her?’
‘She said she hoped I would pass me scholarship. That ’er time at training college was the best time of ’er life. That she’d met such wonderful and interesting people there.’
‘She was pleasant with you then?’
‘Very.’
‘What mood was she in?’
Miss Mason thought for a while before replying. ‘Seemed all right. I remember thinking how she’d be in class. Y’know, stood in front and getting them in order. She said Standard 6 had been a handful but they weren’t as bad as some she’d taught over in Salford.’
‘Were you alone with her?’
‘Oh no. All the others were there – the other teachers, that is,
