Act of Murder (20 page)

*

Herbert was nowhere to be found. Wigan town centre wasn’t exactly extensive, and there were only so many tea rooms and public bars he could have visited. But wherever he
looked, Benjamin drew a blank. Surely he hadn’t gone farther afield? The town boasted three railway stations, but it was highly unlikely that Herbert would have suddenly, and without warning,
decided to take a train to any of the neighbouring towns. But if he had stayed within the confines of the town centre, then where on earth could he be?

With an increasing sense of unease, he walked into Market Place and along the slow decline that led to Standishgate. To his right, as he faced the northern end of town, he saw the Royal Hotel.
He had made his mind up to cross the road and walk through the portals of the hotel, giving the reception area a cursory glance before venturing into the adjoining hostelry. But as he waited for a
frustrating parade of horse-drawn carts filled with agricultural produce to wend their way past him, he saw a familiar figure touch his forehead and address a clergyman before emerging from the
building and setting off down Standishgate at a brisk pace.

From the expression on Herbert’s face, whatever his business had been inside the hotel, its conclusion had been entirely to his satisfaction.

*

‘Sergeant?’

Slevin looked up from the scraps of paper he had been writing on in an attempt to put some order into his thoughts. From the circled name, Throstle, stretched several strands, apparently
unconnected, and yet . . . Violet Cowburn was most definitely linked – she had enjoyed carnal relations with the deceased only hours before his death, and her father, Billy Cowburn, had a
circle around his name linking him with both Violet and Throstle. Georgina Throstle, the bereaved widow, was of course connected, yet the double line linking her with the victim indicated the added
detail of her complete absence of alibi. She was lying next to him, for pity’s sake, when it happened! Yet Violet had an incontestable alibi – she was enjoying the dubious hospitality
of the Royal Albert Edward Infirmary at the time. Her father, too, might well have an alibi if he could give them names of witnesses who saw him out drinking when the crime took place. At the
moment he was languishing down in the cells, trying desperately to unfog his memory of that drink-sodden night.

Who else was there? Slevin felt sure that the story young Violet had told him of Throstle’s immoral and disgusting activities had some basis in truth: Mrs Throstle had vehemently defended
his reputation last night, but then she would, wouldn’t she? So if Violet’s tale were true, someone else – an enraged father or lover, perhaps? – could be guilty of the
crime, a crime which, by its very nature, strongly suggested vengeance of a particularly personal kind.

He drew another circle, with a line leading back to the victim’s name in the middle of the page. But he could as yet think of no name that would fill the empty space.

‘Sergeant?’

The voice, more insistent this time, and accompanied by a sharp rap on his office door, forced him to look up.

‘Yes, Paintbrush? What is it?’

‘There’s a bloke to see you at the sergeant’s desk,’ answered Constable Turner.

‘What bloke?’

‘Says he’s the manager of the Royal.’

‘Well, bring him here then!’

The young constable muttered something Slevin couldn’t quite catch, and disappeared from view.

Mr Jameson was brought in a minute later. He looked distinctly unhappy, and nervously fingered the bowler he held in his hands.

‘Mr Jameson?’

Once Constable Turner had closed the door, the man seemed to relax slightly. ‘Detective Sergeant Slevin,’ he began. ‘This is most awkward. But I would be remiss in the
prosecution of my duties if I didn’t do all that I could to assist the police.’

‘Of course.’

‘It concerns a rather . . . delicate matter.’

‘You can rely on my complete discretion, Mr Jameson.’

‘It concerns Mrs Throstle, the recently –’

‘Yes?’

‘An hour ago, I happened to be walking around the hotel. It is my usual custom. My
rounds
, as I call them. And it goes without saying that I have been paying Mrs Throstle’s
room particular attention, in case any small service is required. As I say, an hour ago I was on my rounds when I happened to pass her room. Mrs Throstle’s. I . . . overheard
something.’

‘What?’

‘Raised voices.’

‘Who was her visitor?’

‘That was, initially, the problem, you see. I hadn’t been aware she had any visitors. Certainly none had announced themselves. We were expecting her brother, of course, the Reverend
Edward Malvern. But it disturbed me, you understand? To hear anyone raise his voice at such a time as this . . .’

‘
His
voice? Her visitor was a man?’

‘Alas, yes.’

‘What were they talking about?’

Jameson shrugged. ‘I couldn’t hear specific words, only their general tenor. And volume.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I knocked as gently as I could on her door.’

‘Did she respond?’

‘Not at first. I could hear some . . . well, it sounded like whispering.’

‘Then what?’

‘She came to the door and asked me what I wanted. I told her I was at her service if she required anything. I caught sight of her visitor in the looking-glass. It faces the door, you know,
although I am sure he didn’t see me observe him.’

‘Who was he?’

Mr Jameson suddenly, and with a renewed enthusiasm, reached into his side pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a small book of very few pages. He handed it to Slevin, who looked at the
cover with keen interest. It was a programme for
The Silver King
, the melodrama that was playing at the Royal Court Theatre.

‘If you look at the second page, sergeant, you’ll find a list of characters in the play and the names of the actors playing them. I was invited to the opening night in recognition of
my position.’ He seemed to throw out his chest a little as he imparted the information. ‘And the man I saw in Mrs Throstle’s room was playing that part on Tuesday
night.’

He reached down and pointed to the line:

*

Edward Malvern stood with both hands clasped firmly behind his back and glowered down at his sister. The expression on his face was a familiar one to those who regularly sat in
his church and waited with a timorous sense of foreboding for the sermon to begin.

Georgina Throstle merely sat there, both hands folded neatly on her lap in a demure attitude of compliance. She had known before she opened the door that Edward’s arrival in Wigan had
little to do with the bringing of fraternal or even priestly comfort but more with the delivery of censure.

It had been ever thus. When they were children, he had forced her to sit before him as he stood on a stool giving her the lesson of the day that he himself had received at school, testing her on
salient and abstruse points and punishing her roundly for any lapse in concentration.

‘An abomination!’ he had screamed on more than one occasion. It was a word he had heard in Bible class and had particularly liked.

At eighteen she had taken a position as governess, and the relief she felt as she left the house for the last time was matched only by the sheer sense of exhilaration at the dizzying prospect of
freedom that the future held. A future that contained Richard. And how she had sinned since then!

‘I have thought long about what my first words should be to you, Georgina.’

His voice was low, whispered.

‘You know, of course, that your marriage to that charlatan was a source of great torment both to myself and our father.’

Who art in heaven, reflected Georgina, but wisely kept the thought to herself.

‘And it has been a constant agony for me to stand by and see you become more and more embroiled in his manic schemes.’

‘I seem to recall you were more than willing to provide some funds for Richard to develop his business?’

‘For a higher purpose than hitherto has been the case,’ he said coldly. ‘Richard knew the focus of his shows would have to change dramatically if I were to support him. But we
both know he would have rejected the idea. Now, lamentably, the Lord has seen fit to remove this man from the world and cast him into the pit of hell. It is a chastening fate, sister.’

She glanced up at him for the first time. ‘These are your practised words of consolation and fraternal love, are they?’

He bridled, clasping his hands even tighter behind his back.

‘I see your marriage has taught you incivility.’

And many other things, dear brother!

‘I came because it was my duty to do so. I will not leave until I have discharged that duty.’

‘And what is your duty?’

‘Well, it most certainly is not to offer you absolution for your sins. I am no Roman cleric. Your sins are deeply imprinted upon your soul. Like brands on a cow. No, sister. I am here to
offer you comfort. And to take you back to Leeds. To live with me.’

‘With you?’ She moved her head back a little in an involuntary gesture of shock.

‘It is my duty to take care of you. Here – proof positive.’ He handed her a small package, wrapped in brown paper.

‘What is it?’

‘Your medicine, which you asked me in your telegraph message to bring.’

‘Thank you.’ She took it and placed it on the table beside her. ‘What about Ellen?’

‘My wife has naturally concurred with my suggestion. She agrees it will be a boon to her household.’

Georgina smiled thinly. ‘I see. You wish me to live with you, as it were, in service.’

‘Nonsense! You will merely undertake those duties that are seemly for a bereaved widow. You will be in mourning for two years, and in that time there will be ample opportunity to grieve
and reflect.’

Georgina was about to reply when there was a knock at the door. Without waiting for her permission, he turned and swung it open. A man stood there with an apologetic smile on his face.

‘Who are you?’ Edward asked curtly.

‘My name is Detective Sergeant Slevin, sir. And who might you be?’

Edward turned and glared at his still-seated sister. ‘Her brother.’

‘Ah. A most distressing time for both of you, sir, I have no doubt.’

‘What do you want?’

‘A few words, if I may?’ Without waiting to be invited, Slevin strode past the open-mouthed brother and stood before Mrs Throstle. He thought he detected the trace of a smile on her
features. ‘My apologies, ma’am, for this intrusion.’

‘My sister is in no condition to speak with anyone, let alone the police.’

‘Under normal circumstances I would be in full agreement, Mr . . .?’

‘Reverend Malvern.’

‘But of course these are not normal circumstances. You are doubtless aware of how your brother-in-law met his demise?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it’s my duty to discover the one responsible and bring him to justice.’

‘By harassing his widow?’

‘I am not harassed, sergeant,’ Georgina Throstle said quietly. ‘I assure you.’

Edward shot her a glance before muttering ‘Excuse me!’ and leaving with a slamming of the door.

‘I apologise for my brother, Sergeant Slevin. As you can see, he is –’

Slevin held up a hand. ‘No need, ma’am. He is concerned and protective, I’m sure.’

The look in her eyes gave the lie to his words.

‘But I am here to ask you a rather delicate question, and perhaps it is best that your brother has left us.’

‘Go on.’

‘I am reliably informed that you have recently entertained a visitor . . . Can you tell me who your visitor was and why he was here?’

‘This is more than a little intrusive, sergeant.’

‘It is necessary.’

‘He is someone who knew my husband. Came to offer his condolences.’

‘And his name?’ If she gave him a name different from the one he knew, then she would be hiding something, and that in itself would require further investigation.

‘His name is Mr Herbert Koller. An actor with the touring company at the Royal Court.’

‘I see. And what was the nature of his acquaintance with your husband?’

She shrugged. ‘I have no idea. They knew each other, and he came to offer his condolences and his support. It was most kind of him.’

‘I see. There was no . . . shall we say, unpleasantness?’

She blinked at him, then glanced away for a second before returning his gaze. ‘Whatever has given you that idea?’

He shrugged. ‘Someone heard raised voices.’

‘Not from this room.’

‘Then they must have been mistaken.’ He gave a short bow. ‘Well, Mrs Throstle, I apologise for the intrusion. I hope you gain comfort from your brother’s presence in
town. Is he staying here at the Royal?’

‘He is.’

‘For how long?’

‘I can’t say. I am hoping he will make all the arrangements for my husband’s return to Leeds.’

‘I’m sure he will. Good day, Mrs Throstle.’

‘Good day, Sergeant Slevin.’

*

Jonathan Keele sat in Mesnes Park and watched the swans glide by. On either side of the tall, proud parent swam six or seven tiny cygnets, their movements more rapid and
frenetic. Yet they all followed the parental lead as he led them to a small clump of rushes on the far bank.

Suddenly, he heard a great hissing as something disturbed the swans, a water rat perhaps, and the whole family swung effortlessly around and took a different route through the water. The last he
saw of them was the smallest of the cygnets struggling to keep up as they disappeared beneath the dark archway of a railed footbridge. Gradually the ripples died away until the water was smooth and
undisturbed once more.

Just as it had been when little Catherine had sunk beneath the surface.

He shook his head, but the maudlin thoughts only veered in another direction.

Would he leave such a small and indistinguishable trace? When he shuffled off this mortal coil, would the only thing left be yellowing playbills and curled programmes? Perhaps a faded eulogy in
The Era
, a thespian curiosity, of interest only to the bored historian of tomorrow anxious to find any reference, however slight, to Irving, or Miss Terry, or Miss Bernhardt?