Act of Murder (6 page)

Benjamin saw his eyes grow slightly moist as Herbert’s image presented itself. He too was across the corridor, next to Miss Coupe. Was it possible he would, even at this nervous moment, be
thinking of Benjamin? Sometimes it was difficult to gauge what the boy was thinking, and although he returned tendernesses with professed ardour, Herbert rarely initiated them. And that disturbed
him somewhat. Or was that merely his own insecurity once again rearing its head, as it always did? Why shouldn’t the boy be thinking of him at this very moment? It was a warm thought.

From a distance, he could make out the muted sounds of an auditorium slowly filling. The thrum of conversation was underscored by the strains of the orchestra making their final, seemingly
tuneless, preparations.

Someone knocked at the door, breaking into Benjamin’s thoughts.

‘Yes?’

No answer.

He frowned in the looking-glass. ‘Who’s there?’

Again, only the usual sounds of bustle, of backstage shufflings and muttered comments. He glanced up at Garrick’s portrait. Was the great man frowning also? Benjamin slowly pushed back his
chair and walked over to the door, which he always kept locked. ‘Hello?’ he shouted through the flimsy wooden panelling. Even though there was no reply, he could have sworn there was
someone standing no more than a few inches away on the other side. He cursed himself for his sudden attack of nerves and reached down to unlock the door.

As he swung it open, he was more than a little surprised to see Jonathan Keele standing there, already fully made up and looking every inch the kindly old servant who sacrifices his peace of
mind to stay with poor Nelly Denver and her children after her husband is falsely accused of murder.

‘Jonathan? This is most unusual.’ They were less than half an hour from curtain-up.

The ageing actor gave a slight bow, already bearing himself in a subservient manner. There was, however, a pained expression on his face. Something told Benjamin that the cause was not solely
his stomach cramps. ‘May I speak, Benjamin? It’s a rather delicate matter. I’ll be brief.’

Benjamin, both curious and alarmed at the use of the word ‘delicate’, stood to one side and allowed his older colleague to enter.

Keele still moved with some athleticism. Benjamin had often admired the lithe, casually confident way in which he glided through rehearsals, his ageing frame miraculously transforming itself
into stooping and feeble old age when the part demanded. As Jaikes, he had to combine selfless devotion with the steely resolve of a faithful retainer, and he was indeed one of the great successes
in the group, bestowing an avuncular gravitas upon the whole company that prompted the younger ones, perhaps missing the solace of home, to seek his advice and value his worldly wisdom. It was no
more than his due that Benjamin had decided to grant his old colleague a benefit performance in the last-night show. But despite his long and distinguished career on the boards, an aura of
melancholy hung around the fellow’s shoulders like a cloak.

As he turned to face him, Benjamin wondered if Jonathan had been the recipient of some secret, some confession, which he now felt the need to share with the manager of the company. His first
words therefore came as something of a shock.

‘I have never judged you, Benjamin. In all these years.’

‘Jonathan?’

‘We both know that the theatre is a broad-minded and indulgent world.’

Indulgent.
The adjective made him blink, a stone hurled into a tranquil pond. ‘I speak as a friend now, Benjamin. As an
old
friend. And as such I may be bold enough to take a
few liberties. You understand?’

‘But of course.’

Keele nodded. ‘You are . . . fond . . . of Herbert.’

It was a statement, not a question. The old man’s eyes contained no censure, Benjamin was relieved to notice.

‘I am. He is a fine young man. And one day he will be the finest of actors.’

A sad shake of the head. ‘Oh I think he has already become that.’

From beyond the door, people were now rushing along the corridor from the communal dressing-rooms, the close swish of material quickly followed by muttered curses, nervous laughter, louder than
usual greetings.

‘How do you mean?’

Jonathan Keele gave a heavy sigh, the very facsimile of the sound he made on stage when the loyal servant Jaikes refuses point-blank to leave poor Nelly Denver to her poverty-stricken fate.
‘You must be very careful with that young man.’

‘Why?’ He coughed to clear his throat. The question had slipped out like a hiccup, hoarse and involuntary.

‘Let’s just say he may not fully appreciate the meaning of the word “fidelity”.’

The gentle way he spoke made Benjamin feel quite weak. He was also more than a little disturbed to hear him articulate some of what had earlier been on his mind. ‘Do you speak with
knowledge, Jonathan, or through mere suspicion? I ask again. Do you speak with suspicion only?’

A reluctant and barely susceptible nod gave him the straw to cling to.

‘Benjamin, I saw him in earnest conversation with an older man.’

‘Where?’

‘The Grill Rooms here in town.’

‘Who was this . . . person?’

‘I have no idea. But it was the way Herbert continually looked around . . . the way one does when the conversation is . . . sensitive.’

Benjamin responded with a forced smile. ‘There could be any number of reasons why Herbert should be with this man.’

‘Is there any reason why Herbert should give this man money?’

‘What?’

‘I saw him hand something over. Secretly. It looked like money.’

‘But you’re not sure?’

‘No.’

Immediately Benjamin walked over to his table to complete his make-up. It was more a gesture of despair, in case the old actor should decide to speculate on the reasons for such a deed.

Jonathan stood behind him and patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘Take care,’ he said in a deep whisper. Then he turned and left the room.

Benjamin stared at his reflection, at the heaviness that lay behind the eyes, and with slow mechanical movements he completed the applications that would turn him into Samuel Baxter,
Detective.

*

When Constable Jimmy Bowery, along with two of the larger members of the constabulary, arrived at Mort Street it was dark and still foggy. The gas lamps ranged along the street
cast a dull yellow glow that just managed to penetrate the thick veil of fog and transformed the group of neighbours gathered outside the Cowburns’ front door into something almost funereal.
Even the miners, still blackened from their toils of the day, stood beside their womenfolk offering their own beery views of the violence that had visited their street. Some of them were reluctant
to judge their workmate without first hearing what he had to say. Besides, Violet Cowburn might have been asking for it. This viewpoint was angrily rebuffed by the distaff side of the argument,
which offered the opinion that no offence by young Violet warranted such a brutal and possibly deadly response.

The policemen had shunted their way through the crowd and Bowery had the onlookers pushed back, away from the front door. Some of the miners, still simmering with resentment at the role of the
police in the recent coal strike, refused to be moved, staring defiantly into the faces of the constables. But the arrival of the doctor had brought a communal sense of concern for the young girl
still lying at the foot of the stairs, and the men had retreated. Within minutes the girl was brought out, with Ethel Grundy holding her head steady as the doctor had instructed, and was placed in
a waiting carriage for transportation to Wigan Infirmary.

As the carriage trundled slowly down the cobbled street to be swallowed up by the fog, and as the crowd was ready to disperse, with some of the men grumbling about being
clemmed to buggery
wi’ all this nonsense
, a murmur of excitement had rippled through them as someone spotted a forlorn figure, shoulders slumped and hands planted firmly in pockets, walk glumly past the
vanishing carriage and make his way in a slouching gait towards the gathering of neighbours.

‘Billy!’ one of the men yelled out. ‘Tha’s getten company!’

Bowery, standing inside the doorway, wheeled around to glower at the one who had shouted, but all the coal-black faces returned the same blank, surly expressions. Farther down the street, the
dim shape of Billy Cowburn froze beneath a gas lamp. Then he turned quickly and started to run back the way he came.

Before the three policemen could give chase, several of the miners moved with surprising rapidity to block their path.

‘Let the lad be!’ snarled one.

‘It’s his daughter, he can do what he wants!’ rasped another.

One of them placed a clenched fist against Jimmy Bowery’s face and said, ‘Tha has t’get past me first!’

Constable James Bowery could never be described as quick on his feet. Indeed, his large frame, bulked out in almost every direction by a combination of flab and muscle, made rapid movement a
mere memory of his youth. But the one thing he did pride himself on was his strength. It was this strength, as he reached up and gripped the offending fist, that caused his aggressor to wince in
excruciating pain as he felt every bone in his hand splinter with a sickening crunch. He was on his knees, cursing and begging for release, within seconds.

Bowery nodded to the other two to give chase. A parting of Red Sea proportions opened up before them and they rushed down the pavement in pursuit of their quarry, who had disappeared up a narrow
alleyway on the opposite side of the street. The rattle of his clog-irons on the unevenly cobbled surface echoed hollowly from the entrance which formed a narrow archway beneath two terraced
houses. The two policemen, whose boots were only slightly better suited to running along the smoothly treacherous cobblestones, scampered through the entrance to be swallowed up by the fog and the
sudden darkness of the alley. Bowery and the others could now only listen to the sounds of pursuit, then an almighty crash of splintering wood and muffled imprecations. Finally a silence, broken
only by a strange rasping noise.

‘They’ve getten ’im!’ said one of the men through gritted teeth.

‘Or he’s getten them!’ came the anonymous, more optimistic response.

All eyes were now turned on the arched entrance to the alley. A gas lamp hung above it, casting freak shadows. Suddenly, three shapes emerged like an unholy trinity and the source of the noise
became clear – the two policemen were dragging what appeared to be the unconscious fugitive between them, his clogs scraping toe-first against the uneven flagging of the alley and his head
dangling low and swinging from side to side as they pulled him roughly back to the street.

Bowery raised a hand. He didn’t want the brute to be brought all the way back – no sense in parading their triumph before his neighbours – and so, with a glance of dire warning
to the silent onlookers, he moved quickly off to join his colleagues and help them transport him as best they could to the even less welcoming environs of the Wigan Borough Police cells and a more
intimate opportunity to question the man.

‘Whoa!’ came a voice from behind him as he made his way down the street.

He turned and saw one of the women – the Cowburns’ neighbour – walking quickly towards him, flanked by two men.

‘Don’t interfere,’ warned Constable Bowery, employing his most menacing tones. ‘Or you’ll be sharin’ a cell with me laddo over yonder.’ Which
wasn’t strictly true, of course, but the threat was clear.

The woman ignored him and strode on. Bowery was amazed to see her walk right past him with purposeful tread and make straight for his colleagues and their prey.

‘Bloody women!’ he muttered, joining the others. ‘Be off!’

But Ethel Grundy would not be off. She stood her ground, gazing down at the slumped form of the fugitive with a grim expression on her face. For a moment, Bowery thought she was about to launch
into the prisoner and pummel him into the cobblestones in a paroxysm of neighbourly outrage. But then he saw the other women gather around her and heard one of them say, ‘Tha were right,
Ethel. Tha’s getten eyes like a bloody hawk an’ no mistake! Fog or no bloody fog!’

Bowery felt it was time to reassert his authority. This wasn’t a sideshow. ‘Right then, you’ve had your eyeful, now get back to your husbands.’

Ethel switched her gaze from the unconscious figure, whose head was lolling at a most uncomfortable angle, to the large red-faced constable towering over her. She thrust her jaw forward in a
pugilistic gesture of defiance. ‘That’s exactly what I’m doin’, you big daft sod.’

Bowery looked at the other constables. ‘What?’ was all he could think to say.

Ethel Grundy pointed a finger at the man they had arrested. ‘That poor bugger yonder, who you’ve knocked seven bells out of, isn’t Billy Cowburn.’

‘Who the hell is he then?’

‘Well, he’s my husband, mister policeman. That’s Nat Grundy. Looks like Billy bloody Cowburn’s buggered off.’

*

‘Let me see if I understand this correctly,’ said the chief constable, Captain Alexander Bell, who was standing behind his escritoire with both hands behind his
back and gazing up at the plasterwork swirl of the ceiling.

Before him, Constable Jimmy Bowery clutched his helmet to his chest as if it could offer some sort of protection from what was about to be fired his way.

‘You were in charge of two men.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you were to arrest one William Cowburn for violent assault on his daughter.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The suspect duly appearing out of the fog, like a genie from a bottle, as it were.’

‘Dunno ’bout a genie, sir. Looked more like . . .’

‘The simile is immaterial!’ Bell snapped at the unfortunate object of his wrath. He paused, then said, ‘And under your orders, the two constables gave chase when Mr Cowburn
appeared?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And the two constables were still under your orders when they reappeared with someone they had arrested in the alleyway?’