Act of Murder (10 page)

He tentatively placed a hand on Georgina’s breast and caressed the cold nipple. No response. Perhaps the compound was stronger than he thought. By the pale moonlight filtering through the
flimsy drapes, he could just make out the shape of her slightly parted lips, but after a few more seconds of attempted arousal he gave up, and as he turned away from her he saw the whites of her
eyes finally disappear beneath her closing lids.

He would never again see those eyes open.

4

The first to notice something was amiss was the young lad who occasionally helped out at the hotel. He ran errands, did odd jobs such as shoe cleaning, or running to the
entrance to Central Station to purchase a newspaper or a periodical. This morning he was carrying out the less than pleasurable duty of conducting any of the chamberpots left outside the rooms to
the rear of the hotel, where he would pour the noisome contents down the privy. As he passed number twelve, he heard someone shout out, ‘My God! My God!’ He paused. Then the voice
called out, ‘There’s no pulse. All this blood! It’s murder! Murder!’ upon which he dropped the chamberpot he was carrying, ignoring the yellow liquid soaking into the
threadbare carpet, and ran downstairs for help.

*

The door to Captain Bell’s office at Wigan Borough Police Station swung open, and the duty sergeant stood there with a disturbed expression on his face.

‘What is it?’ Captain Bell snapped.

‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. But there’s a bit of a commotion at the desk.’

‘What sort of commotion?’

‘It’s a chap sent from the Royal. Says they’ve found one of their guests. Dead, sir.’

Bell sighed. ‘Then it’s a case for the doctor and the coroner.’

The sergeant lowered his voice. ‘From what he says, sir, it’s a case for us.’

His superior stood up and followed the duty sergeant back along the corridor.

At the desk, he found a nervous-looking young man who presented himself as the assistant manager of the Royal Hotel. He spoke for only a few minutes, but the chief constable’s brow
darkened visibly as he listened to the young man’s hesitant and almost terrified voice. He then dismissed him with instructions for the room to be kept locked and for no guest to be allowed
to leave. Then he turned to the duty sergeant with a glance at the clock high above the front desk.

‘Where the blazes is Detective Sergeant Slevin? He is five minutes past his time. This is unconscionable!’

As if on cue, Samuel Slevin walked up the steps outside the station, whistling a lively tune. The duty sergeant tried to forewarn him, but the chief constable moved quickly.

‘When you have finished warbling like a cockatoo, sergeant . . .’ Captain Bell planted himself firmly in front of his senior detective. ‘You need not bother entering the
station.’

‘What?’ said Slevin, misunderstanding the man’s words. ‘But I’m barely five minutes late, if that!’

Captain Bell leaned forward. ‘I mean you are to go up to the Royal Hotel, where some body is waiting for you.’

‘Somebody? Who?’

‘I said, some
body
, sergeant. There has been a murder. Of the vilest kind.’

*

Number 147 Darlington Street had provided lodgings for theatricals for many years. The walls of the front room were richly decorated with playbills advertising productions from
Wigan all the way down to Penzance. Some of the posters, gifts from grateful guests, had far more exotic names, announcing productions in such far-flung places as the Theatre Royal, Melbourne, the
Kroll Opera House, Berlin, and the Corinthian Theatre in Calcutta.

The proprietress of the lodging-house was a large-framed woman with a hearty sense of humour and a fearsome reputation as a strict upholder of moral conduct. Mary O’Halloran had come from
Charlestown, County Mayo over forty years before, a young girl of ten who had seen many of her family die in the great potato famine and whose da had vowed to put some food in their bellies if it
was the last thing he did. After some years working in the mines he had eventually died from the black spit, his lungs rotten with disease, and her ma had had to throw open their doors and take in
lodgers to make ends meet. Later, when her ma passed away, Mary had become so steeped in the colourful world she heard so much about at every mealtime that it had been an easy decision to continue
with the business.

She had a particular fondness for Mr Morgan-Drew. He had stayed on previous tours, but this was the first time he had brought his own touring company. She had seen him on stage in earlier
productions and had marvelled at his ability to become another person, apparently with ease, but when she spoke to him in the intimate confines of her own home, she saw something else there –
a deep sense of loneliness in his eyes.

She had romantic ideas of his meeting some middle-aged actress, perhaps widowed and eminently respectable, who would cause the sadness to fade from his eyes.

Certainly, since he had been back in the town, she had seen a lifting of his spirits and a sparkle in his eye, though she wasn’t quite sure of the origin and would most certainly not
offend the man by making enquiries.

This morning it had been difficult to waken Mr Morgan-Drew. Although she was quite a flexible woman, and accepted that actors lived by rules others would consider bohemian, she had always made
it clear that there were to be no late-night shenanigans of either an immoral or an alcoholic nature. Furthermore, although she often gave her more favoured guests a late-night key on the
understanding that anyone arriving home after hours would comport himself with a silent dignity, last night when he returned, Mr Morgan-Drew had been neither silent nor dignified.

She had heard him and the young man who occupied the room next to his – Mr Koller – speaking in an urgent and often vulgar manner below her window on the street and later in the
front parlour. Here their tones became even more strident, compelling her to hammer on the bedroom floor with her da’s walking stick. Thankfully, silence had ensued, and she heard them both
whispering on the landing before retiring to their respective rooms. But she was determined to broach the subject this morning, unpalatable though it might be, which was why she was now waiting
outside Mr Morgan-Drew’s room, having knocked on the door for the umpteenth time.

Finally she heard a grunt from beyond the bedroom door.

‘What?’

‘Mr Morgan-Drew?’

‘Who else would it be, you silly woman? Henry Irving?’

‘Well I think not. From what I hear he is a sober and respectable kind.’

‘What is it you require?’

‘I require a word or two with you and Mr Koller.’

There was a pause from beyond the door that lasted so long that Mrs O’Halloran knocked once more.

‘I am indisposed at the moment, Mrs O’Halloran. Allow me the courtesy of a few moments’ ablutions.’

She gave a snort and declared that she would be awaiting his pleasure in the parlour, and if he would be so kind as to arouse Mr Koller next door and ensure his attendance also.

‘I promise to arouse him, Mrs O’Halloran!’

‘Good.’ Her mission partly accomplished, she returned downstairs, where she would prepare for her two guests the heartiest of breakfasts.

*

When Detective Sergeant Samuel Slevin arrived at the Royal Hotel, there was already a sizeable gathering in the small foyer. He was immediately met by Mr Jameson, the hotel
manager, who explained that these people were travelling businessmen who were anxious to be on their way and were more than a little unhappy at being unable to check out of the hotel.

‘This unpleasantness is not very good for business,’ said a perspiring Mr Jameson. ‘Word spreads, you know.’

Slevin couldn’t tell whether he was referring to their enforced delay or the fact that there was a dead body upstairs. ‘Well, the sooner I see the remains of the victim, the quicker
they can be on their way.’

‘Excellent.’

The manager stood back to allow the detective access to the stairs to the left of the doorway. ‘It’s number twelve.’

‘How long have the Throstles been resident?’

‘A few days. They have hired the Public Hall for their magic lantern show. Highly respectable people, you understand, sergeant.’

‘Of course.’ He stopped halfway up the stairs. ‘Your reception area. Is there someone on duty throughout the night?’

‘Of course.’

‘But your main entrance is open for residents arriving late?’

‘As at most hotels, sergeant.’

‘I see.’

Once Slevin had reached the door of number twelve he gave a silent nod to the young boy standing there and looking on the verge of collapse at any moment. Why on earth had Jameson placed a lad
barely in his teens outside the scene of a murder? He turned around, held up his hand to forestall any further assistance from the manager, and took a deep breath before pushing the door open.

Death was never a pleasant sight. As he slowly opened the door he saw the lifeless shape on the bed, the eyes blank and glassy, and the lips pulled back over the teeth in a parody of a smile.
But it wasn’t the expression of horror on the pale features that caused him to gasp.

The sheets were thrown back to expose the lower half of the torso, and the area surrounding the thighs and groin was a soaking mass of blood that glistened even as it congealed. He turned away
and surveyed the state of the room. Every drawer of the dresser had been ripped out, its contents strewn haphazardly across the floor. What was obviously the Throstles’ valise lay open,
revealing clothes and personal effects. As Slevin fought back the bile rising in his throat, he took a step closer to the bed and his foot accidentally caught the rim of the chamberpot. Now he
noticed something else about the unfortunate victim: he had not only been stabbed but vilely mutilated, disfigured beyond belief, unmanned in the most grisly, inhuman way. Horror piled upon horror,
for as he turned away, he caught sight of the chamberpot, and what it contained.

*

Ethel Grundy sat across from Violet Cowburn and felt a wave of sympathy for the lass. She didn’t usually have much time for the girl, the way she swanked down the street
with her head held a little too high for Ethel’s liking. It was as if the girl couldn’t wait to leave the place she was born and had grown up in. Her mother had run off, cocking a snook
at the world and his missus. Perhaps that sort of thing ran in the blood?

Yet such thoughts were far from Ethel’s mind now. Violet had come home that morning. Ethel heard movement next door, somebody rattling a saucepan and raking the grate. She gave a tentative
knock on the front door and was shocked to see the pale, pain-wracked face of young Violet, who was standing there and swaying most unsteadily.

‘Ee, lass, what the heck are ye doin’?’ she had said, and caught the girl just before she swooned.

Half an hour later, after Ethel had made the fire and the coals were already beginning to glow, they were sitting at the table with hot cups of tea in their hands, and Violet had explained why
she had made her way home from the hospital.

‘Me father’d starve if it were left to ’im. He’s got nobody to do for him, has he?’

‘No more than he deserves, after what he did.’

Violet shook her head. ‘He’d every right, Ethel.’

‘No man has a right to throw his only daughter downstairs.’

Violet took a long sip that seemed to burn her lips. ‘You saw, didn’t you?’

‘Saw what, lass?’

‘The man. The one who ran away.’

‘Oh him.’ Ethel looked into the flames of the coal fire.

‘I thought . . . I mean, the way he hid, like a frightened rabbit. And then he just pushed me into me dad, and flew downstairs and out of the door before you could spit.’

‘There’s plenty like that, lass.’

‘Aye. I know, Ethel. But . . . I can’t blame me dad. That’d just be addin’ one sin onto another. It were my fault, all this. But I’ve no one I can talk to,
see?’

‘About what?’

‘About what I’ve done.’

‘And what have you done?’ Ethel asked, though she thought she knew.

Violet looked away. ‘I . . . I’m sorry, Ethel. I’d best keep some things to meself, eh?’

‘If you have to. But I’m only next door, love. You ever need anythin’ . . .’

Violet reached out and grasped her neighbour’s hand. ‘I know. Thanks.’ Now it was Violet’s turn to gaze at the burning coals. ‘You don’t happen to know where
me dad is, do you, Ethel?’

*

Voices were raised angrily in the residents’ bar of the Royal Hotel. The front doors had been firmly closed to all but the most necessary callers – a local doctor
had come and gone, and he was followed by a succession of constables who escorted the hotel residents into the bar area, where they placated them as best they could. Then came the grand entrance of
Horatio Bentham, M.B. and C.M. (Edin.), who had been house surgeon at the Royal Albert Edward Infirmary for over twenty-five years and who would be carrying out the post-mortem examination. Finally
the angry protestations grew muted, the interviews suspended for the moment, while the bearers from the infirmary morgue brought down their melancholy burden beneath a swathe of calico sheets.

Slevin spoke a few words with Dr Bentham before returning to the manager’s office that lay beyond the small reception desk. Here the victim’s wife had been installed, sedated and in
a state of shock.

Georgina Throstle was lying on a chaise-longue with a damp cloth over her eyes and one hand resting on her head. One of the hotel maids was seated beside her, patting her hands and looking most
uncomfortable in the process. She gave Slevin a look of relief as he silently indicated that she should leave the two of them alone.

She was indubitably a handsome woman, he thought, as he took his place beside her and introduced himself. Her jet-black hair was swept back in a tight bun, and her face was well-formed, with
prominent cheekbones and a sharpness to the tight curve of her mouth. With great care, she lifted the cloth from her forehead and turned to look at the policeman. Her eyes were heavy, and it seemed
to be a desperate effort to keep them from closing.