Act of Murder (16 page)

Benjamin cleared his throat. ‘I rather think we must inform the police if a . . .’

‘There is no point, Benjamin.’ It was Susan who interrupted him. ‘What
is
the point is that we are staying in a dangerous place and we need assurances that we will be
safe when we leave the theatre tonight.’

Benjamin gave his most paternally reassuring smile. ‘I can assure each and every one of you that there is nothing to be afraid of. The Wigan police force is among the finest in the land.
Why, only last night I met the chief constable himself, Captain Bell, who was at the opening night.’

‘Perhaps he was applauding at the actual moment of the murder, eh?’ said Jonathan Keele, with a wry glance at the others.

‘He inspires confidence,’ Benjamin declaimed grandly.

‘And the murder took place much later!’ Herbert added.

Jonathan looked at him coolly. ‘How do you know that, Herbert?’

The young man gave a dismissive smile. He had been uncharacteristically subdued for a few minutes, but now he seemed to have recovered his equilibrium. ‘Oh, one hears things by the by.
Come, surely we can trust Benjamin to look after us? I doubt if a ghoul is prowling the streets looking for travelling thespians. As for the chappie who accosted our leading players, surely he
recognised you and was seeking an autograph? I am told Edmund Kean’s hand fetches three guineas.’

‘We need to be very vigilant,’ said Jonathan, giving Herbert a venomous look. ‘And Benjamin, you need to ensure no member of the company leaves alone.’

‘That is precisely my feeling, Jonathan.’ He surveyed the group. ‘Is that agreed, my friends? We must never be alone.’

Susan Coupe gave James Shorton a small nod.

‘There is one other thing,’ said Jonathan, who felt the meeting hadn’t exactly gone to plan.

‘What now?’

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, the theatre, from the tiny and totally inadequate privy at the rear to the grand sweep of the upper circle, is freezing.’

‘In a few short hours this theatre will once more be full,’ said the actor-manager with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘Audiences bring their own heat.’

‘But we can see our breath as we speak!’ said someone standing at the rear of the group.

There was a muttering of agreement, and Benjamin could sense the moment had come for firm action. The last thing he needed was a rebellious and miserable ensemble. ‘I propose a grand feast
at the Silver Grid Dining Rooms after tonight’s show – with drinks included.’

It was a magnanimous and totally unexpected gesture and struck them like a bolt from heaven itself. They would normally have retired to the small salon in the theatre for a few desultory drinks
before going back to their respective lodgings, the communal get-together being usually reserved for the last night, when they could finally relax and perhaps over-indulge before catching the train
to their next engagement the following morning. It also had the added attraction of providing safety in numbers.

‘That is a very generous gesture, Benjamin,’ Jonathan Keele said, and turned to the others, who appeared to agree with their spokesman.

‘Good. That’s settled, then. Now we must get backstage and prepare to transform ourselves once more.’

Their protest drowned at birth, the company began to move off to the wings. Benjamin stayed for a while to savour the moment. Of course the dinner would make quite a dent in his pocket, but it
would be worth it. Quite by chance, their little demonstration had played wonderfully into his hands. He couldn’t have managed it better if he had scripted it himself.

6

Slevin watched Violet walk slowly and painfully down the station steps and into the swirling snow. He was about to return to the cells to resume his questioning of Cowburn when
a small boy rushed from nowhere and touched his flat cap.

‘You Slevin?’ he asked, hardly able to catch his breath.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Slevin, yes.’

The boy reached into his pocket and took out a small envelope. He shoved it towards Slevin, who reached down and took it.

‘It’s from Dr Bentham,’ he said to himself. ‘Good lad.’

‘Aye,’ the boy panted. ‘He said you’d be grateful.’

‘How grateful did the good doctor say I’d be?’

‘A bob?’

A response born more of wishful thinking than truth, Slevin reflected. ‘Here’s a tanner.’

With a dramatic sigh the young Hermes reached up, snatched the proffered coin and scooted back down the steps with a hasty ‘Thanks!’

Back in his office, he slit open the envelope and read its contents. Bentham’s style was curt and to the point. He wasn’t a man who expended much energy on any of the social graces,
his employment of a street urchin as a courier being a prime example.

So, nothing unusual about the mixture Richard Throstle had obtained for his wife. The slightly excessive chloroform might explain why Georgina Throstle lay undisturbed while her husband was
being butchered. Perhaps it was a blessing that she had lain senseless during that time.

But what was he to make of the asbestos dust found in the nose and around the throat? Had the murderer held something covered in asbestos to his face, ensuring the suffocation before mutilation?
The suffocation hadn’t apparently been sufficient to kill the victim, just render him unconscious so that the villain could go about the ghastly operation freely.

He felt sure there hadn’t been anything remotely composed of asbestos in the room – but he would have the room checked once more.

He left the office and walked down the short flight of steps that led to the canteen. There he found Constable Bowery seated at a table drinking a mug of tea, holding court – as he usually
did – with the younger and more impressionable constables.

‘Constable Bowery!’

Bowery spilled some of the tea on the wooden table. ‘You made me jump, sergeant.’

‘Good. Perhaps we can conclude the interviews with our main musketeer.’

Within minutes, they once again faced Billy Cowburn, who was by now looking cold and miserable.

‘Look,’ he said, putting his blackened hands together as if in prayer, ‘I chased the swine, an’ if I’d have caught him I’d’ve wrung his bloody neck. No
question, mood I was in. But what would you’ve done, sergeant, eh? You come home an’ you find a bloody toff in your daughter’s bedroom an’ her half-naked! What did you think
I’d do? Go down an’ make him a bacon butty?’

Slevin, hiding his amusement at the unlikely scenario, gave a grave shake of the head.

‘So I chased the bugger, halfway to Wigan. Then he jumps on a passin’ tram an’ all that swine does is give me a wave. Imagine that, eh? A bloody wave! I’d’ve shoved
his arm up his arse sideways if I could’ve reached him. But I couldn’t.’

‘What about last night?’

‘I . . . give them bobbies the slip. Then I went up to Scholes like I said. We went on a bender, me an’ George an’ Rodge. I told ’em about the bastard I’d caught
with our Vi.’

‘Where did you go?’

He let out an exasperated breath. ‘Started off in t’Windmill, then t’Roebuck, then th’Harp, then t’Crown an’ Sceptre, then t’Shamrock, then
th’Angel . . . .then I lost track after that. Might’ve tried one in t’Clock Face farther down, but I’m not all that sure. I was a bit oiled by then.’

With over seventy public houses in Scholes, the three of them had no shortage of opportunities not only to get very drunk indeed, but also to devise some sort of brutal and bloodthirsty revenge
on the defiler of Violet Cowburn. What was also significant was the drinking route these men took – they had started at the farther end of Scholes, but with each subsequent port of call they
were moving closer to the town centre. And the Royal Hotel.

‘What time did you get back to your friend George’s house?’

He shrugged his shoulders and gave a snort of helplessness.

Back in his office, Slevin looked at Constable Bowery and thought for a long while before putting words to his thoughts. Eventually he said, ‘He has the best of motives, doesn’t
he?’

‘Aye, he does, sergeant.’

‘And he admits that the three of them at least discussed the possibility of doing the deed.’

‘And the more they yapped, the more they planned, I reckon.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, they’re not far from the town centre, not far from the Royal. They could’ve got in some way, through the kitchen at back, say, an’ then crept upstairs an’
sliced off his John Willy before you could say Bob’s your uncle.’

It was dark outside now, and the snow had temporarily deteriorated into a sort of haphazard flurry. Slevin noticed the yellow flame of the gas lamp opposite, dull and flaring occasionally as the
wind crept through the tiny gaps in the glass bowl.

‘One thing puzzles me though.’

‘What’s that, sergeant?’

‘There was no sign of Throstle’s door being forced. The lock was intact, which it certainly would not have been if Cowburn and his allies had barged their drunken way in.’

‘So how
did
the murderer get in?’

‘Three possibilities. One, Mrs Throstle left the door unlocked after she got up to admit her husband. Perhaps she didn’t relock the door in all the – shall we say, excitement?
– at her husband’s entry into the room. Besides which, she was rendered rather groggy by the Chlorodyne.’

Bowery narrowed his eyes to picture the scene Sergeant Slevin had described. ‘Stroke of luck for the murderer if she left it unlocked.’

‘Or whoever entered the room had a key of their own, opened the door silently while the husband and wife were lying there, Throstle in a drunken stupor and his good wife in a drugged sleep
enhanced by the Chlorodyne and the chloroform it contained.’

‘But where would anyone get another key to fit that lock?’

‘Hotel manager, or any of the night staff. But I must admit that is highly unlikely. It would throw them under immediate suspicion if they asked for the pass key.’

‘What’s the third possibility?’

‘That the murderer was already inside the room, had been there all the time.’

‘What? You mean, like hidin’ in a wardrobe or summat? Waitin’ to pounce? That’s a bit unlikely, ain’t it, sergeant? I mean, she must have put her coat back in there
when she got to the room. And even if she didn’t, what if the Devil made a noise while Mrs Throstle was lying there an’ before her husband came to bed? Nah. That’s a risky one
an’ no mistake.’

‘I said it’s possible the murderer was already in the room, constable. I said nothing about anyone hiding in the wardrobe.’

Bowery frowned. ‘But if he was already in the room, and not in t’wardrobe, where exactly would the murderer be then? Under the bloody bed!’

‘Not
under it
, constable. No.’

A look of surprise spread over Jimmy Bowery’s face as the implications set in.

‘You mean his wife did him in?’

‘As I say,’ Slevin went on without waiting for his constable’s machinery of logic to whirr into action. ‘Three possibilities. And there may be a fourth we haven’t
even considered yet.’

‘Bloody hell!’

‘Still, let’s take one step at a time. At the moment we have a suspect and possible accomplices in custody, don’t we?’

‘Do we keep him in, sergeant? Let the devil sweat a bit longer?’

Slevin nodded. ‘I suppose we’ll have to.’

He stood up and told Constable Bowery to sign off for the night. There was nothing they could do for the moment.

‘Does that mean we can forget lookin’ all round town for the card sharps, sergeant? Them as probably don’t exist?’

‘We’ll leave them in the realm of fantasy for the moment, constable. Now go home.’

After Bowery left the room, Slevin stood at the window and saw, not the dying flakes of snow dropping listlessly from the blackness, but his own reflection gazing at him with more than a hint of
accusation. He had promised Violet Cowburn her father would be set free and he had broken that promise. But it would be folly to release him just now.

He thought also of the grieving widow, Georgina Throstle. Was she even now alone and wretchedly bereft in the solitude of her hotel room? She had told him she would remain in town for the
foreseeable future, until a resolution of some kind could be found and she could take her husband’s body back to Leeds. Surely an onerous and melancholy task in itself.

But then he thought of her jewellery. The idealised image of a black-clad widow keening over her loss dissolved, to be replaced by a cold, heartless woman interested only in retaining her
material possessions. Which was the true image? Or was it somewhere in between? With a husband who was at the very least a philanderer and probably (if what Violet Cowburn had told him was true)
something much worse, was this a woman capable of such a gruesome act?

He had already seen the thick black lettering pasted across the advertisement for the Public Hall
Phantasmagoria:

It was beyond his understanding how she could continue with any performance under the ‘unforeseen circumstances’. And what on earth was a ‘memorial performance’ if it
wasn’t a despicable way of profiteering from murder?

Slevin left the room in darkness and was making his way along the corridor and out of the station when he heard the familiar voice of the chief constable booming behind him.

‘Isn’t it time you gave me your report on this damnable crime, Detective Sergeant Slevin?’

*

Outside room number four, the young boy adjusted the collar of his Post Office uniform, making sure his silver-plated numbers were visible, and knocked loudly.