Who Wants to Live Forever? (4 page)

I smiled wryly at my arrogance. I had met her once, for a couple of hours, and I was already thinking of her as being ‘in my life’. I was glad I wasn’t discussing this with Julie, for she would really have told me off for being presumptuous.

In contrast to Trish, Debbie came across as both dangerous and vulnerable. She dressed as if she was trying to defy the calendar that told her she was a woman in her mid-fifties. On many people, her dress would have come across as a shade too tight and a tad too short, but she managed to carry it off effortlessly. She certainly didn’t look her age, and there was a sensuality, rather than sexuality, about her that I found enticing. I could envisage life with her as being one long round of parties and excitement. There was nothing whatsoever ‘safe’ about her. And yet, at the same time, she came across as vulnerable. Her job might not be the most exciting, but anybody who was writing a novel should surely have something to enthuse about, yet she was almost apologetic for inflicting her words upon the world. Her self-effacing attitude added to her attraction as far as I was concerned. She could help me and I could help her. Much as Trish might be good for me, Debbie might be what I needed out of life.

I shook my head and told myself not to be so stupid. Yes, I might be interested in both of them, but whatever made me think that either of them would take the slightest interest in me? What did I have to offer them?
Just enjoy their company, Ethan
, I said to myself as I checked my appearance in the mirror before leaving the flat,
and leave it at that. Then you’ll not be disappointed
. But I knew that I’d take no notice of my own advice.

***

I arrived early at the college that evening, fully expecting that there would be new faces in the class, but I was to be disappointed; Gail was the only other person there when I arrived, and by seven o’clock there were just the six of us who had been present a week earlier. It was noticeable that Mike and Emma chose not to sit with us, but took seats at the other circular table. But there was no sign of Louise, and as the clock ticked on to ten past I began to think that the cancellation letters had been sent out but hadn’t arrived in time.

It was a surprise, then, when Louise walked in a couple of minutes later. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, “but I’ve been on the phone to the Education Department to see if anybody else has enrolled.”

“And have they?” I asked, unable to keep the fear out of my voice.

“No, I’m afraid not,” she answered in a sad voice. “But not to worry,” she added, her tone now much more upbeat. “I’ve managed to persuade them to let us continue. Now, let’s get started, shall we? We’ve a lot to cover tonight. Mike, Emma, as there’s only going to be us seven here, come and join us at this one table, please.”

Reluctantly, the couple moved over to join us, and I noticed a smile of what looked like satisfaction on Louise’s face. Perhaps she couldn’t say so officially, but I guessed she had felt challenged by last week’s attitudes and was determined not to allow them to cause any disruption to her class.

“Right, let’s begin. As I said last week, I want to concentrate over the next nine weeks on nine specific events that took place across the county over the last century. At first, you might think that there is nothing about these cases that warrants them being given more attention than any other occurrences, but I hope that by the time we reach the end of the course you will be able to see the connection between them all.

“Before I start, though, I want to set the general scene, and I intend to do that by talking about crime in Lancashire. If we look at the decade from the mid-thirties through to the end of the Second World War, it’s probably fair to say that the crime rate in Lancashire was fairly low, at least in comparison with the type and severity of crimes that we see today. Take youth crime, for example. Children at that time were still mischievous, but not malicious. One of their favourite pastimes was to tie adjacent doorknockers together, knock on the two doors, then run off to watch and laugh as the two householders tried in vain to open their front doors to see who was calling. It was mischievous rather than malicious, and nobody was hurt by it. In general, people could walk through town at night in perfect safety, and it’s become almost legendary now how people would go to the shops without bothering to lock their front doors, yet nothing would ever be stolen.”

“Yeah, but that’s because they had nowt to steal.”

“Perhaps that’s so, Mike, but nowadays, their home would be vandalised whether there was anything worth stealing or not. Women, especially, could feel safe when they were out. There were areas where police had to walk in pairs, because they were considered fair game for a beating when the pubs emptied at closing time, but they also gave as good as they got, without having to listen to claims of police brutality.”

“You’ll be telling us Gene Hunt was a good cop next,” sneered Mike.

“I’m neither condoning nor condemning anybody. I’m just telling it as it was,” said Louise, a little exasperated. “Nowadays, smacking is not allowed, but in the thirties police and family members dispensed a good old-fashioned clip round the ear to straighten out wayward children. And it used to work, because nobody wanted to be on the receiving end twice. The police would often use their cape as a weapon, swirling it round and clouting people on the shoulders. With the thick collar and fastening clasp, it was a very quick, effective and painful means of dispensing justice.

“So, and now we come to the point of all this. With major crime a rarity, when there was a murder, it grabbed the headlines; far more so than would happen today, when suspicious deaths are unfortunately all too common. So what I want to talk about next is one of the stranger deaths that occurred in the county. It happened just over a hundred years ago, in Manchester. I know that isn’t in Lancashire now,” she added before anybody could interrupt, “but Manchester and Liverpool used to be as much a part of Lancashire as Lytham St Annes is. This course will look at events that occurred across the old historic county.”

I could see that Mike was itching to contradict Louise, despite Emma’s attempts to quieten him. For the next twenty minutes, I sat and listened to what I considered to be a rather unnecessary argument about whether or not a variety of locations were suitable subjects for a course about Lancashire.

Louise looked at her watch. “We’ve spent quite a bit of time on this discussion. I suggest we go for our break now, then we can start on the real content of tonight’s session when we return in twenty minutes.” And without another word, she stood and walked out of the room.

***

As I sipped my coffee Trish came over to join me. “That was a little unexpected. I’m glad she suggested a break. I was dropping off to sleep. Who really cares whether Todmorden is in Lancashire or Yorkshire? Unless you’re from there, I suppose.”

I nodded my assent. “I thought I was the only one. I hope that the rest of the sessions don’t get hijacked, as I was quite intrigued when she said we were going to look at a strange death. I know,” I added quickly, “it sounds a bit morbid, but I thought it would be interesting. I get the impression, though, that whatever content was included in the course,
he
wouldn’t be happy. Even his girlfriend — I’m assuming that’s what she is — was trying to calm him down, but he seems intent on confrontation. I don’t think he likes the fact that he’s in a group with so many
oldies
as I’m sure he refers to us, but that isn’t going to change. They could have helped change the dynamic if they’d encouraged some of their friends to enrol, but they were no more successful than the rest of us in getting new people to come along tonight. So this is the group, like it or not. I just hope that Louise hasn’t had second thoughts about twisting the arms of those at the department and letting the course continue. Half of me dreads going back in case she’s had a change of heart as a result of his aggressive negativity, and she’s used the break to cancel the remainder of the course.”

“Me too,” added Trish. “And it would be such a shame, for I’m with you on this. It isn’t being morbid at all. In fact, I was hoping the strange death would be a puzzling murder. Now that would be fascinating. Don’t you agree, Debbie?”

Debbie walked across, having obviously heard the tail-end of our discussion. “I’m not too sure. Perhaps I haven’t got the same kind of gory interests as you pair,” she added with a semi-laugh, “but I was hoping perhaps for more, well, shall we say
historical
facts to be discussed.”

As she spoke Debbie looked directly at me. Her blue eyes, sparkling as the light reflected in them, seemed to bore deep into my soul, and I found myself floundering beneath her gaze.

“He seems to have gone into a trance. What did you do to him?” Trish laughed, enjoying my obvious discomfort when I realised I had missed part of the conversation.

Mumbling something about it
being an age thing
, I led the three of us back to the classroom, hoping that there would still be a class to attend.

***

When we returned, Louise was finishing off putting some stapled sheets on our tables. “I’ve given you all some background information details about what we’ll be discussing. So, let’s begin with the bare facts about this murder.” I looked at Trish and she smiled. “It happened, as I said, in Manchester, on Friday, January sixth, 1911. Just over a century ago, and this is the farthest back I intend to go on the course. The victim was a woman called Enid Rodgers, and she died of arsenic poisoning.”

“A woman did it, then,” said Gail, but Louise shook her head.

“I know poison is traditionally associated with the fairer sex, but in this case…well, that’s what I want to talk about. Let me just say that a woman wasn’t found guilty of the murder; in fact, it was Enid Rodgers’ husband who was convicted. As far as the notion of poison being associated with female murderers goes, there are some notable precedents of men being involved in poisonings, such as Dr Crippen, who was hanged in 1910 for the murder by toxic drug of his second wife, Cora. You may have heard about his capture, which came after a telegraph message was sent by the ship’s captain as he spotted Crippen on board during a voyage to Canada. However, the murder of Enid Rodgers is nothing like that.”

“So what is so unusual about this one that warrants this discussion?” I asked, puzzled.

“Ah, I’m coming to that. Let me give you the facts of the case first. Enid Rodgers lived with her husband, Alfred, in central Manchester, close to the junction of the rivers Irwell and Irk. Enid was forty-eight years old and she was a cotton worker at one of the county’s many mills. The couple had no children, and seem to have kept themselves to themselves as much as possible. Enid first became ill towards the end of 1910, and was bed-ridden over Christmas and the New Year. At first, her husband didn’t think there was anything to it, as ill health amongst mill workers was a daily occurrence in those times, but when the headaches showed no sign of improving he turned to one of Enid’s friends from work, a woman called Eve Rhodes. Eve had been a visitor off and on over the preceding few weeks — she seems to have been the only person other than Alfred and Enid to have frequented the tiny one-bedroomed house in Arnside Street.

“Eve almost took up residence in the house over the festive period — it seems that she had no family over here, as she came over to England from Canada some time during 1910.”

“Perhaps she did a swap with Crippen, then,” joked Emma. “She did it, I’ll bet.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned Crippen yet,” said Louise, but she had a slight smile on her face. “But you could be right nevertheless,” she added, mischievously. “Anyway, Eve’s presence didn’t seem to make any difference. On the contrary, for Enid’s condition continued to deteriorate. The constant vomiting left her increasingly weak, and in desperation Alfred sent for the doctor, Patrick Woolley.”

“Sure it wasn’t Crippen?” sneered Mike.

Louise pointedly ignored the interruption. “The doctor came but it was too late. Enid fell into a coma on the morning of January sixth and never regained consciousness. She died later that afternoon. The doctor, her husband and Eve were all by her bedside when she passed. And that would have been it — just one more death in a city where early death was a fact of life as a result of the prevailing conditions of the time — had it not been for a keen-eyed clerk who read the doctor’s report of the death. Unfortunately, history doesn’t name this clerk, but without him this entire course might not exist.”

I looked over at Trish as Louise said this and mouthed,
“Why?”
, but Trish only shrugged her shoulders in response. I turned my attention back to Louise.

“…read that Dr Woolley reported seeing a
‘
strange puff of dust
’
at the exact time that Enid died, but he had no idea what it was. This intrigued the clerk, who decided to dig a little further, and he ascertained that there were some unusual aspects to the case. To begin with, Enid’s fingernails were discoloured with a white pigmentation called
leukonychia
, or — more commonly — white nail. The doctor hadn’t taken much notice of this, as it was relatively common, with any injury to the base of the nail a likely cause. But there was something else in this case — the whitening was in bands, called
leukonychia striata
, and the clerk knew that this was a symptom of poisoning, with lead or arsenic often the cause.

“As Enid had also suffered hair loss prior to her death, the clerk was convinced that something untoward had happened and an investigation was launched once Dr Woolley confirmed that there was no arsenic present in any of the tonics he had prescribed. It was common at the time for some women to whiten their skin by using a mixture of vinegar, chalk and arsenic, but Alfred Rodgers was vehement that his wife never paid any attention to those ‘ridiculous desires of fashion’ as he called them.”

“I take it,” said Debbie, “that her husband was putting a noose round his neck when he said that. Why on earth are some men so stupid? All he had to do was say his wife was fashion conscious and quite possibly he’d have walked away scot-free.”