Act of Murder (17 page)

He heard what sounded like drawers closing from inside the room, and then the door swung open to reveal a tall, graceful and beautiful woman dressed in black.

‘Telegram, ma’am, at your service!’ He snapped his heels together and sharply handed over the telegram. He gave her a sharp salute and stood back, hands clasped behind his back
and chin held high.

Georgina Throstle opened the missive and read quickly. Then she frowned and whispered to herself the single word ‘Tomorrow!’ As soon as she uttered the word, the messenger’s
heart sank. They rarely gave a tip when the news was bad.

She mumbled something he couldn’t catch and turned her back on him, pushing the door shut with a backward swing of her hand.

Georgina Throstle slumped in her chair and wept. A wave of fatalism overwhelmed her as the events of the previous twenty-four hours pulled her down into darkness. Her face was beginning to
pulsate with each successive sob, and she looked around the table, searching for her salvation. Where in God’s name had she put that bottle?

She stood and looked around. The pain was growing now, and she could feel the nerves tingling down the side of her face as if they were gleefully anticipating their reawakening.

Then she remembered. That awful, over-zealous policeman had taken it. She could feel her breath coming in spasms. First the telegram from Edward and now this.

She ran to the door and gripped the handle. But where could she go? Rush out and make a dash for the nearest chemist? It would hardly be seemly, clad as she was in these ridiculous widow’s
weeds.

No. She would control herself and stroll slowly, with a suitably sombre expression on her face, and she would instruct the desk to send out for an analgesic. What was the potion called?
Chlorodyne
.
That was it. She drew the black veil over her face and opened the door.

She gasped as out of the shadows of the corridor a dark figure loomed over her, with one arm raised and ready to strike.

*

‘Good Lord!’

Captain Bell had listened with increasing disbelief as Detective Sergeant Slevin recounted the tale he had been told by Violet Cowburn. That such evil existed in this world! Not only that, but
the very idea of people paying money to see those vile images!

‘We’re entering a new Dark Age, sergeant,’ he said at last. He peered intently at his sergeant for a few seconds. ‘Do you believe her?’

‘Yes, sir. I do. The girl doesn’t have the imagination – nor, do I think, the wickedness – to invent such things.’

‘But to suborn women, some of them young girls, for God’s sake! No older than twelve, you say?’

Slevin opened his hands in sad assent.

‘And have them pose in such abominable ways – for the delectation of wealthy and supposedly respectable gentlemen – why, I must confess I am speechless.’

‘Miss Cowburn admits she posed in highly improper tableaux. And she says she saw several such girls, sweet, innocent little girls taken not only from the streets but from, shall we say,
compliant families. Children with whom she was expected to consort.’

‘That is the aspect of the whole affair that I simply cannot believe. No father with any spark of decency would agree to such a thing. There, at least, the girl must be romancing,
eh?’

Slevin shook his head. ‘I really can’t say, sir. But whatever the truth about Mr Throstle is, at least he will do no more harm to young girls. And this information may provide us
with another motive.’

‘Vengeful females?’

‘Or their husbands, fiancés – or even fathers. You know how violently Cowburn reacted when he found his daughter
in flagrante
.’

‘Where are these vile photographs?’

‘I don’t know. I intend to ask Mrs Throstle.’

‘Good grief, man! You surely don’t think
she
had any knowledge of such goings on, do you?’

Slevin shrugged. ‘No idea, sir. But as I say, I intend to ask.’

Captain Bell took a deep breath and spoke in his most sonorous tones. ‘Remember that she is a bereaved woman, sergeant.’

‘I will be discreet, sir.’

‘And sensitive, Sergeant Slevin. Discretion wrapped in sensitivity. Is that understood?’

‘Of course, sir.’

*

It was almost six-thirty – sixty short minutes to curtain-up – and Benjamin felt an uncomfortable dryness in his throat.

Where the devil was Herbert?

He had gone around the various dressing-rooms and he was nowhere to be found. Jonathan Keele, fully made up and pacing the corridor with head bowed and hands firmly pressed against his midriff,
merely shook his head when Benjamin asked if he had seen the wayward boy, while Susan Coupe sat facing her mirror with a distant expression on her face.

‘He’s probably gone out for some fresh air,’ suggested Belle Greave.

‘Fresh air?’ Benjamin had boomed. ‘In Wigan?’

He stormed onto the dimly lit stage and peered through the curtain at the auditorium. It was already beginning to fill. At other times he would have beamed with satisfaction at the sight and the
fact that these patrons had braved foul weather to be here tonight. But there would be no point if one of the main characters went missing. Young Toby, Herbert’s understudy, was capable and
willing enough, it was true. But he had come to regard Herbert as a sort of talisman, a physical assurance of success, despite his sometimes mercurial behaviour.

He was just about to inform Toby of his elevation when he heard the stage door slam.

‘Herbert! Where in damnation have you been?’

Herbert stopped and spread his arms wide. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Curtain in less than an hour! This is most unprofessional.’

‘I can be ready in half the time.’

‘But where have you been?’

‘Oh?’ Herbert walked slowly towards him. ‘And what happened to the concept of trust? Of free flight?’

‘It has nothing to do with trust, everything to do with the performance.’

Herbert seemed to be on the point of replying when he held back. Instead he took a deep breath and came up close to the actor-manager, laying a hand on his shoulder. ‘I have been out
saving your bacon, Benjie, if you really must know.’

‘My bacon?’

‘I have been in the Silver Grid. You promised the company a feast after tonight’s performance in the ice-house. Remember?’

He remembered the promise, certainly, but he clapped his hand to his forehead as he realised he had done nothing about it. ‘My boy!’ he said. ‘It had completely slipped my
mind.’

‘It would have been quite the thing if the whole group of us had turned up to find the place either in darkness or unprepared for our arrival. A feast, dear Benjamin, takes some
preparation, does it not? Rather like a play.’

‘I am sorry, Herbert. It was just . . . it wouldn’t have been the same if you weren’t . . . . I worried. Forgive me.’

‘Of course.’ He smiled warmly. ‘Now I cannot stand here gossiping, Benjie. I could well miss my entrance!’ With that, he turned swiftly around and marched to his
dressing-room, his habitual swagger even more pronounced.

As he made his way back to his dressing-room for the final touches to his make-up, Benjamin could now smile at his earlier panic. Everything was right with his world once more.

*

A sentiment shared, earlier that evening, by Georgina Throstle.

Admittedly, she had been alarmed to the point of screaming when she saw the dark figure apparently about to strike her as she opened her door, but her obvious shock had elicited an immediate
expression of regret and concern ‘for my unwarranted intrusion, ma’am’.

The man’s voice had been soothing. She stood in the doorway and struggled to regain her widow’s composure.

‘Please forgive me, ma’am. I have come only to offer my most sincere condolences.’

She gave a slow nod of acceptance.

‘I realise this is a most distressing time, but if there is anything I can do, I would be more than happy.’

As he stood there in the doorway, his shadowy features gradually revealed themselves. He was of average height, with hair of light brown and rather elegantly flowing locks that seemed to blend
seamlessly with his small moustache and beard. He wore rimless spectacles, and his eyes were deeply set beside a sharp aquiline nose. The suit he wore, however, was smeared with dust and had seen
better days. She had seen the man about the place, and recalled how he had waved to Richard the previous night when they got back from the Public Hall.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said when her breath had returned. ‘But who are you?’

He smiled and gave an apologetic bow. ‘My name is Jenkins. I was honoured to make your husband’s acquaintance a few days ago here in the hotel. I am a resident. We shared a few
drinks in the hotel bar last night, and he told me so much about you. I have only just returned from a business trip to Manchester. I was most distressed to hear of . . . what happened.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘Well,’ he said, after a brief hesitation. ‘I must say farewell. I have a ticket for
The Silver King
. It’s a play. And my business clothes are hardly suitable for
the theatre.’

‘Yes,’ she gave a wan smile. ‘I have seen it advertised.’

He turned to go. ‘I can only repeat. If there’s anything I can do, I would be delighted. It cannot be easy for you. I presume your family are on their way?’

She frowned and cast an involuntary glance to the table behind her. ‘My brother will be here tomorrow evening.’

‘We must be thankful for that. There’s nothing like the support of one’s family at a time like this . . . Well, I must be going. Good evening, Mrs Throstle.’ He gave a
small bow and walked off down the corridor, taking precise and slow steps, as if afraid that haste would be an indecorous way of leaving a recently bereaved widow.

She was about to close the door when she saw a figure approach Mr Jenkins at the top of the small flight of stairs that led down to the hotel foyer. In the dimly lit corridor it was impossible
to make out the man’s features, although she felt sure she knew him. He said something to her recent visitor, who glanced down at his fob watch in what she supposed was a pointed display of
irritation – he did, after all, have a play to go to – but he gave the man a curt nod, and they both walked into the foyer and out of sight.

When she closed the door and returned to her seat at the dressing-table, her curiosity was piqued, so much so that she realised with surprise that the pain in her face had quite gone.

*

‘I won’t keep you long, sir,’ said Detective Sergeant Slevin, observing the man’s impatient frown and the deliberate way he took out his fob watch and
flicked its gold casing open with an irritated flick of thumb and forefinger.

Once they were inside the manager’s office, Mr Jameson, who had told the detective of his elusive guest’s presence when he entered the hotel in search of Mrs Throstle, tactfully
withdrew ‘on his rounds’ and left the two of them sitting in the two armchairs by his desk.

‘Well, sergeant?’

‘Well, Mr Jenkins. You’re quite an elusive character.’

Jenkins smiled and held up his hand. ‘Admitted! I travel quite extensively, and Wigan is my current base, you see. It’s central to most of my towns.’

‘Your towns?’

‘Hosiery doesn’t sell itself, sergeant.’

‘Quite. Can you tell me what you and Richard Throstle talked about last night?’

Jenkins stroked his beard before replying. ‘Ah yes. Terrible business. He was most companionable. Had some stories to tell about some of the places we have both visited.’

‘And was that the entire gist of your conversation with him last night?’

Again, Jenkins stroked his beard, but there seemed to be a definite discomfort now as he shifted his position in the armchair. ‘That and other things, you know.’

‘What other things?’

‘I got the impression that he was . . . deeply unhappy.’

‘Unhappy? In what way?’

Jenkins shrugged. ‘I don’t think it decent to speculate.’

‘But surely if you sensed that he was unhappy, then you must also have gained some awareness of its cause?’

‘He said something to me – now you must understand, sergeant, that at the time he was rather the worse for wear, and whatever he was saying must therefore be treated with a certain
amount of caution.’

‘Well?’

‘He asked me a curious question. He asked me if I was happily married.’

‘Why is that curious?’

‘Because of what he said next. “Do you love your own wife?”’

Slevin frowned. ‘Surely the two questions are the same?’

Jenkins shook his head. ‘No. You see, he put undue emphasis on the words “your own”
.
“Do you love
your own
wife?”’

Slevin still didn’t follow.

‘Are you suggesting that he and his wife were estranged in some way?’

‘Well, yes and no. I got the distinct impression there was more to it than that. I felt he was hinting, in that leery drunken way, that not only did he not love his own wife – he had
feelings for someone else’s.’

This was a departure, Slevin thought. Throstle had been seeing young Violet Cowburn, but she was to all intents and purposes a common prostitute, and therefore he would have felt nothing for
her. But if what Jenkins was saying was true, then it was possible that the man had been conducting an illicit affair with another woman, one who was married. Married women meant husbands. Was
Throstle killed by a vengeful husband seeking redress in the most gruesome of ways?

‘Is there anything he might have said that could shed some light on the identity of this . . . other woman? If indeed such a person exists.’

Jenkins again pondered the question. ‘Nothing of substance. But he did say that he couldn’t wait to get back to Leeds. I got the impression that whoever he was talking about might
actually live there.’

Slevin took out his notebook and pencilled in a few words.

‘Will that be all, sergeant? Only I will be late for the theatre and I still have to change. The four-thirty from Manchester Piccadilly was not the most comfortable of journeys.’