Act of Murder (15 page)

Hastily she replaced the slides, locked the safe with a sigh and left the small office.

A brief meeting with Mr Worswick had also been necessary to discuss the arrangements for the rest of the week. She had assured him that, with the help of her husband’s several assistants,
she would be more than capable of mounting the same spectacular show they had hitherto witnessed.

‘The conventions of mourning must of force yield to one’s commitments,’ she had told him. ‘After our programme has ended, I will enter full mourning, and pay my dear
husband the respect he deserves.’

‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, and without wishing to offend, but one of the reasons for your show’s tremendous success during the past week has been the . . . commentary . . .
provided by your dear husband.’

Georgina had bestowed upon him her most beatific smile, necessarily tinged with sadness. ‘Oh, that’s not an insurmountable obstacle, I can assure you.’

‘But I don’t think . . .’

‘I repeat, it is not an obstacle. My husband will be very proud of his replacement.’

‘But a woman’s . . . voice, shall we say, will perhaps fail to . . .’

‘Oh, you misunderstand! It will not be I who takes on the role. It will be someone who will be with us by tomorrow.’

‘And who will that be, ma’am?’

‘A man who will, of course, be fully conversant with the scripted commentary written by my husband, and more than capable of instilling the requisite fear in an audience.’

Next, she had retraced her steps along King Street to Ranicar’s, a few yards away from the parish church gates. There she stood for a few minutes, gathering her thoughts and her emotions
for the ordeal she would face once she set foot in this particular emporium. On the dark framed windows ran the legend:

She composed herself and walked up the few steps, where she was pleased to see one of the shop assistants waiting with the door open and a respectfully sombre expression on his face. She
wondered if they had parramatta silk? She so hated bombazine.

*

A few flakes of snow were beginning to fall as the carriage disgorged its passengers on the steps of the Wigan Borough Police Station. Slevin had travelled on top alongside
Violet, with Bowery keeping a watchful eye on the three men trussed tightly on the seats inside.

Within minutes Violet had been helped into Slevin’s tiny office and given a steaming hot mug of tea. The journey had been excruciatingly painful for her, and she had winced with agony on
more than one occasion as the carriage heaved from side to side.

Two of the ruffians were locked in the cells below ground level, while Billy Cowburn was escorted to a small room used by Sergeant Slevin for interview purposes.

There was a small wooden desk, blackened with age, and two wooden chairs. Set high in the wall facing the door was a small barred window, showing only the rooftops of the buildings opposite, and
the darkening sky, now heavy with snow.

When his prisoner had been seated, with a glowering Constable Bowery standing behind him and longing for the man to prove intractable, Slevin sat opposite him and leaned forward.

‘Now then, Billy. What’s this all about, eh?’

‘Tha’s squashed me balls. They’re black an’ bloody blue.’

‘I’ll take your word for it. But why the rough treatment, Billy? Why react like that?’

‘When I heard voices I thought that posh bugger had come back.’

‘You mean, the man who was with your daughter yesterday?’

‘Aye. Besides, when I caught sight o’ that fat sod’s uniform I just saw red.’

Slevin saw Constable Bowery shift his weight from one foot to another, as if he were taking aim.

‘Some of your lads give me an’ my mates a good hammerin’ at Golborne.’

Slevin recalled the incident from the recent strike, where a large-scale riot had broken out a few miles out of town, at Golborne Colliery. Every policeman from miles around had been despatched
to quell the disturbance in any way they could. He himself had been there and cracked a few skulls himself. It wasn’t his proudest moment.

‘Let’s talk about yesterday, then.’

‘Our Vi says she fell downstairs.’

‘I don’t mean what happened at home. I mean what happened afterwards.’

‘Afterwards?’ Cowburn frowned. ‘You mean when I ran off? Give them soft buggers the slip?’

Again, a movement from behind the prisoner.

‘No, Billy. I mean first of all the time between Violet’s . . . accident, and the time you eluded capture.’

Cowburn looked perplexed. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

‘The man you chased?’

‘Oh, that smarmy bastard. Aye, I chased him right enough. I think he shit himself he ran that fast. Any road, I lost him. But I’ll know the bastard again. An’ he’ll know
me an’ all. Our Vi’s nowt but a lass.’

‘So when you escaped the feeble efforts of my constables to arrest you, where did you go then?’

‘‘I wasn’t hangin’ round. So I went to George’s. Lives in Scholes.’

‘George?’

‘Him with the scar.’

‘Then what?’

‘What d’ye mean, “then what”? Me an’ him went out. Had a few drinks. Well, more than a few. I talked him into takin’ a holy day so we could have another
session. Met up wi’ Rodge.’

‘Oh. The third musketeer.’

‘Third what?’

‘Never mind. Where did you go last night? For a drink?’

Cowburn laughed. ‘Where didn’t we go? You don’t go thirsty up Scholes.’

‘I need to know where you were last night. Especially late on.’

Now Cowburn’s eyes narrowed and he licked his lips nervously. ‘What the bloody hell for?’

‘That man you chased was found murdered last night.’

‘What?’

‘In a very brutal manner. Do you see now how important it is that you co-operate fully? You were heard by half of Mort Street threatening to gut him like a kipper.’

Suddenly Cowburn went even paler than normal, and the surly resentment that had burned in his eyes throughout the interview was now snuffed out, to be replaced by the cold chill of fear. His
hand moved involuntarily towards his throat, as if he could already feel the rough fibres of a rope tightening around his neck.

*

‘How’s me dad?’

‘Co-operating,’ Slevin said as he sat down beside Violet. He spoke to her gently, seeing a very frightened and troubled girl, not much more than a child.

‘He . . . he couldn’t kill anybody, you know.’

He nodded, knowing full well that Billy Cowburn did indeed have it in him to commit murder.

‘I really want to talk to you about Richard Throstle, Violet.’

She looked down at her hands that still grasped the mug, even though she had long since drained it of its contents.

‘The man who was murdered. I need to know anything you can tell me about him.’

‘Such as?’

‘How long have you known him?’

She shifted in her seat. ‘A few months.’

‘Where did you meet him? Apparently he came from Leeds.’

‘In Bolton.’

‘Bolton? What on earth were you doing in Bolton?’

Again she moved in the chair and raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘I just went there . . . caught the train and went there.’

‘Why?’

When she spoke he saw tears begin to form in her eyes. ‘Since she left – my mother, that is – it’s not been easy at our house.’

‘Why did she leave?’

‘Ran off wi’ a soldier. One o’ them sent here durin’ the lockout.’

‘I see.’ Ye t another reason for Billy Cowburn’s fury.

‘We were starvin’. An’ me dad was getting’ more an’ more – well, you’ve seen what he’s like. He’d sit in that chair for hours, just
starin’ at the flames. Then I had this idea.’

‘What was that?’ he asked, although he reckoned he already knew the answer.

‘Nobody knows me in Bolton, do they?’ she said, accepting the look in his eyes that showed understanding. And, she was surprised to see, some compassion.

‘And that’s how you met Mr Throstle?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was it simply a . . . a financial arrangement?’

She swallowed and looked out of the small window that overlooked King Street in the distance.

‘Violet? Did you do it just for the money?’

‘Oh, the money. I suppose. And it felt nice, you know? Havin’ someone cuddle me an’ make me feel wanted.’ She looked at him with a new intensity, as though willing him to
see inside her soul. ‘Any road, he was the only one. Said he’d give me enough money as long as I kept meself for him. Just for him. Though there were some things I drew the line
at.’ She stopped suddenly and averted her gaze.

Slevin had the feeling she was keeping something back.

‘Such as, Violet?’

‘You don’t expect me to describe them in detail, do you?’

But Slevin wouldn’t allow her to hide behind feminine modesty.

‘No, I don’t want chapter and verse, Violet. But I am a policeman and a man of the world, so there’s nothing you can say that can shock me, I assure you. Why don’t you
just tell me what sort of thing Mr Throstle demanded that you had the good sense to refuse to do?’

She shook her head violently. ‘I can’t.’

‘We may have to charge your father with attempted murder, you know.’

‘What?’

‘Well, he did hold a knife to the throat of a police officer in the course of his duties.’

Violet shivered and started to sob.

‘He would probably serve his time in Strangeways,’ Slevin went on relentlessly. ‘Now that
is
a cold place, and no mistake. They say there’s more die in there of
pneumonia than of starvation, but it’s a close-run thing.’

When she raised her face to him it was streaked with tears, and he felt a pang of guilt, once more seeing the child she still wanted to be.

‘An’ if I tell you, you’ll let him go?’

‘If he’s innocent of Throstle’s murder, Violet. If he can prove where he was and what he was up to last night.’

She sat upright, placing both her hands on the desk top, and held her head high. Perhaps she was trying to disguise her shame at what she was about to relate by an appearance of strength.
Slowly, she began to speak, and as her tale unfolded the temperature in the small office became very cold indeed. Slevin listened, first with calm patience, then with a growing sense of
outrage.

Man of the world or not, when she had finished telling him, he was shocked to his very marrow.

*

Herbert patted Benjamin on the back as they crossed the street, the grim edifice of the Wigan Borough Police Station looming behind them, and said, ‘That’s the
ticket!’

‘I realise I cannot keep you caged, like a pet bird.’

‘Of course not.’

‘And that there are times when you need to be alone. I accept that.’

‘Eminently kind and sensible.’

The snow was falling heavily by now, and people rushed past them with their faces buried deep in upturned collars or flimsily wrapped shawls, anxious to reach home. The pair walked quickly down
the narrow passageway that led to the stage door.

Once inside, when they reached the auditorium they found most of the company already there, standing around on stage in small groups, their voices low and subdued. The euphoria of the previous
night was now a mere memory.

‘What’s this?’ Benjamin opened his arms and spread them wide.

Jonathan Keele, who as the oldest member of the company appeared to have been elected as its spokesman, stepped forward. ‘Some of our group are a trifle worried, Benjamin.’

‘Worried? About what?’

‘You have heard about the murder, no doubt?’

‘Murder?’ This, apparently, was news to Benjamin. He looked quickly at Herbert, who merely shrugged his ignorance.

‘In the Royal Hotel.’

‘I see.’

‘And according to my landlady, whose son works at the Royal, it was a murder of particular brutality.’

Benjamin frowned. ‘Who was the victim?’

‘Apparently he is the one who has been showing the magic lantern
Phantasmagoria
in the Public Hall.’ Jonathan looked directly at Herbert. ‘You knew him, didn’t
you, Herbert?’

‘I read the posters, Jonathan. Don’t we all?’ Herbert smiled thinly at Benjamin, who had been watching him closely.

Some of the group shifted their weight uneasily.

Belle Greave spoke up. ‘The point is, Benjamin, that it is a murder. And many of us are in, shall we say, less than secure lodgings.’

‘But apart from Jonathan, who has always made separate arrangements, no one is alone,’ said Benjamin. ‘Every one of us shares an address. I would never leave one of my company
out on a limb.’

The attempt at reassurance was hardly a success, judging from the worried expressions, especially on the faces of the female members of the company.

It was Herbert who spoke next. ‘Wigan is hardly Whitechapel.’

Belle Greave added, ‘It’s hardly Belgravia, either.’

Several of the female members of the group murmured in agreement.

Susan Coupe then spoke, her face flushed with worry. ‘I happened to meet James this afternoon. I had taken a stroll along the canal bank . . . Isn’t that right, James?’

The others all turned to the leading actress and gave her curious glances, each of them wondering what on earth the girl was on about.

‘Quite right,’ Shorton agreed. He looked at Miss Coupe for permission to continue the story, and when she gave an assenting nod, he did so. ‘I decided to escort Miss Coupe back
to her lodgings, and I must say it was rather fortuitous that I did so.’

‘Why?’ asked Benjamin, articulating the question on all their lips.

‘Because we were attacked.’

‘Attacked?’ The word spread through the company with consternation.

‘Yes. Attacked,’ said Susan. ‘Some lunatic grabbed me and made to attack me.’

‘What happened?’

‘Why, James stood up to him, and after a few seconds the brigand ran off, clapping his hands together like a madman.’

‘Did you inform the police?’

Shorton and Susan exchanged glances.

‘No, we did not,’ said Shorton.

‘Why not?’

‘Because there was nothing taken and it was obvious the man was simply deranged.’