Murder at the Manchester Museum Read online

  ‘Indeed, I think you may well be right.’ He turned to Karl. ‘Is she clothed?’

  ‘She is, Father.’

  ‘Then let us see her. There may be something in her clothing that will give us a clue.’

  Karl slowly removed the sheet and O’Brien studied the clothes of the dead woman, the wedding band on her finger, a decorative bracelet and a necklace that still hung around her neck.

  ‘It’s Eileen O’Donnell. The cousin Kathleen was staying with.’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘Poor Eileen. And poor Kathleen. I have to go to the O’Donnells’ and give them the bad news.’

  ‘Would it be inappropriate for us to accompany you?’ asked Daniel. ‘They may have information that could lead us to whoever’s done this, and the sooner we can get hold of something, the sooner we can catch them.’

  O’Brien looked down at the mutilated body of Eileen O’Donnell. ‘Ordinarily I’d ask for them to be given some space, but in this case, I feel you’re right,’ he said. ‘We need to bring this monster to justice.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Their journey on foot through Ancoats was made slower by the amount of people who stopped to greet Father O’Brien, and although it was the cloth that people genuflected to, Abigail also sensed a real feeling of love and respect towards the elderly Irish priest among the people they met. O’Brien didn’t try and hurry people along; he stopped and listened patiently to the worries and fears they expressed, and always ended by giving them a blessing. As she watched the women – and they were mostly women – move off after their conversations with the priest, smiles on their faces, she reflected that the encounter may not do much for their pockets, but it seemed to give them an emotional lift to their spirits. There was something else that Daniel had observed, which he commented on.

  ‘I got the impression that this area was where the Irish immigrants came to, but most of the people you’ve talked to have been Italian; and many of the signs above the shops are in Italian.’

  ‘That is true,’ said O’Brien. ‘In fact, Ancoats is known locally as Little Italy. Hulme, meanwhile, is known as Little Ireland. But poverty and the struggle to survive knows no national boundaries. In every district, and it’s the poor districts I’m talking about, you will find people of all nationalities, mainly immigrants, because housing is cheap, and surviving is all about making the money last. So, here in Ancoats, yes, there is a very large Italian population. Most of them came from the rural areas of Italy, shortly after the immigrants from Ireland came here. And for similar reasons.’

  ‘There was famine in Italy?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘If a harvest fails, there is famine,’ said O’Brien. ‘It may not have been on the same scale as the famine in Ireland, but it meant hunger and people being pushed off their land because they couldn’t pay their rents. Stories about the money to be made here in Manchester at the cotton mills were heard as far away as Italy, and so they came. At the moment, Ancoats is roughly half and half: half-Irish, half-Italian.’

  ‘And there’s no trouble between the two communities?’

  ‘Only now and then,’ said O’Brien. He gave wry smile. ‘And it’s usually the result of too much drink being taken. It’s the way of the world. But they all come to worship at St Michael’s, and I like to think it gives them a mutual feeling of community.’

  He gestured towards a large building made of grey brick they were approaching. Although it looked fairly modern, the doors and windows retained the traditional pointed surrounds seen in Norman churches.

  ‘This is my church, St Michael’s,’ he told them. ‘I’ve brought you this way so you can see where it is. If you need me for anything, this is the best place to find me. The church is always open. If I’m not there, leave a note in the box and I’ll call on you.’

  ‘I expected something older,’ commented Daniel. ‘Most churches seem old.’

  ‘This one was built in 1858,’ said O’Brien. ‘Before the mills came, most of this area was fields.’

  ‘I’m not sure we’d be able to find it easily on our own,’ said Abigail. ‘Ancoats is a bit of a warren.’

  ‘We’re in George Leigh Street,’ said O’Brien. ‘Or, even better, just tell anyone that you’re looking for Father O’Brien at St Michael’s.’

  He set off again, heading through the narrow streets, and now Daniel noticed that the shop signs began to change, the names above the shops now showing Irish rather than Italian names, and also goods. There was also a sourer and stronger smell.

  ‘The middens,’ said O’Brien, noticing both Daniel and Abigail wrinkling their noses. ‘The only form of sanitation there is, open cesspits, one at the end of each street. Those of us who live here have got used to the smell, but it’s one of the first things visitors notice.’

  ‘What sort of household is the O’Donnells’?’ asked Abigail, as they walked.

  ‘Eileen was the backbone, the one who held the family together,’ replied O’Brien. ‘Her husband, Patrick, is a good man, but inclined to take drink when he shouldn’t. He works at the mill, as do most of the people around here, and a few times lately he’s been sent home because he was the worse for wear. No work means no money. Fortunately, most of the children work, the older ones anyhow, so there’s still some money coming in.’

  ‘How many children are there?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Ten. Five boys, five girls. The youngest is just seven months, baby Sean. The eldest is Breda, she’s sixteen. Then there’s John, fourteen. Peter, thirteen. The twins, Marie and Molly, eleven. Kieran is nine. Oona is eight, Thomas six and Margaret three.’

  ‘You have an amazing memory if you remember all your parishioners like that,’ said Daniel admiringly.

  ‘Only some of them,’ admitted O’Brien. ‘In the O’Donnells’ case it’s because of Eileen. Until this happened, she’s been a regular at Mass, and has such faith and the best heart you could ever find, despite all her troubles.’

  ‘Troubles?’ asked Daniel. ‘What sort of troubles?’

  ‘I would think ten children, a husband who drinks, and living squashed together in a tiny back-to-back in Ancoats is enough trouble for anyone, wouldn’t you?’ The priest slowed his pace and murmured, ‘Here we are.’

  An unkempt man was sitting slumped on a wooden chair outside a house. His face and clothes were grimy and he seemed to be in a kind of daze.

  ‘Not at work today, Patrick?’ asked Father O’Brien.

  Patrick O’Donnell jerked his face towards them, tears filling the man’s eyes.

  ‘They sent me home, the bastards!’ he burst out. ‘Told me I was too drunk to work! Too drunk! All I’d had was a little sip to calm me nerves because I was worried about Eileen.’ He began to sob. ‘Where is she? That’s all I need to know! Five days now, and no sign of her!’

  ‘Are the children at home?’ asked the priest.

  ‘Some are. Some are at work,’ said O’Donnell. Then he gave a moan and shouted in anguish, ‘Where’s Eileen?’

  ‘I need to talk to you and the children.’

  A small girl appeared from inside the house, a baby held in her arms.

  ‘I heard your voice, Father,’ she said, and Daniel and Abigail could see the pain and misery on her face. ‘Do you have news of Ma?’

  ‘I do, Oona,’ said O’Brien. ‘Who else is at home today?’

  ‘Molly, Marie and Kieran, and Thomas and Margaret,’ said the small girl. ‘The others are at work.’

  Abigail whispered to Daniel, ‘This is no place for us, Daniel. Not today. It’s only the youngest who are here now, and their poor father, who doesn’t look in a fit state to answer any questions. They’ll need to cope with their grief. This isn’t the place for us.’

  Daniel nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he said.

  ‘Father!’ called Abigail, moving towards the small priest. He turned towards her, and she said: ‘Today is not the right time for us to be here. We thought it would be, but it isn’t. With your permission, we’ll come again another day. Will
tomorrow be acceptable?’

  ‘Tomorrow will be better,’ said O’Brien. ‘The older ones will be here, Breda, John and Peter. They’ll be the best ones for answers. If you call for me at my church first, I’ll come with you to introduce you. Otherwise they’ll be wondering what an educated couple like yourselves is doing here, and wonder in Ancoats makes people suspicious.’

  ‘So they won’t talk to us?’

  ‘They’ll talk to you if I tell them it’s all right.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Abigail. ‘And our apology for getting it wrong today.’

  ‘The fact you say that shows you have good hearts,’ said the priest. ‘Bless you for that.’ He turned to Oona. ‘Come on, Oona, let’s go inside.’ He took hold of Patrick O’Donnell’s arm and hoisted him up from the chair, showing surprising strength from the small and frail-looking man. ‘And yourself, Patrick. I have something to tell you which is better said indoors.’

  The priest led Patrick inside the house, with tiny Oona trailing after them, and closed the door.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ said Daniel apologetically as he and Abigail turned and walked away. ‘I was too eager to get some answers. You were right, this was totally the wrong time.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  As they made their way through the winding narrow streets, Abigail said, ‘I get the impression Ancoats is a rough area and we’re strangers here. Are we safe?’

  ‘We would have been seen on our way to the O’Donnells’ walking through the area accompanied by Father O’Brien. That’s our passage,’ Daniel said.

  ‘Because we walked along with a priest?’

  ‘This is a very Catholic area,’ said Daniel. ‘Irish and Italians. An attack on us would bring down the wrath of the priest, which is greater than the wrath of God to these people. Not so much as far as the men are concerned, but it is to the women. And they’re the ones who rule the families.’

  ‘Not the drunken brutes of husbands who beat them up? I’ve heard stories about Irish and Italian men.’

  ‘Take them with a pinch of salt. Trust me, it’s the women who run things in these communities. That’s why Patrick O’Donnell is so bereft. He doesn’t know what to do. Father O’Brien was being astute when he said that the oldest girl, Breda, is a second mother. I bet you even young Oona, at eight years old, is more capable than her father.’

  ‘They have a hard life,’ said Abigail. ‘Five in a bed.’

  ‘I can show you communities in London not far from our own house in Camden Town where living standards are exactly the same,’ said Daniel.

  ‘What are we going to do about Eve Preston?’ asked Abigail. ‘And her claim that the dead woman was a pickpocket called Deborah.’

  ‘She said she’d call on us at the hotel tomorrow morning,’ said Daniel. ‘If she does, we’ll tell her we’ve had a different identification. And by the dead woman’s parish priest. I doubt if she’ll argue with that.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t turn up?’

  ‘Then I suspect she either found out she was wrong, or she lied to us to try and get this Terry Brady character in trouble.’

  ‘You don’t think we ought to go and look for her to tell her what we’ve learnt?’

  ‘We don’t know where to find her,’ Daniel pointed out.

  ‘She mentioned the Iron Duke pub,’ said Abigail.

  ‘If we go there and say we’re looking for an Eve Preston, it might cause trouble for her. I may be wrong, but I’m guessing it’s not the most salubrious of drinking establishments.’

  ‘So we do nothing?’

  ‘We’ll leave a message at the hotel reception that if she arrives and asks for us, and we’re not there, for her to leave an address where we can get hold of her. Honestly, I think that’s the best we can do. My gut feeling is that we won’t see her again. I still feel she only came to get this Brady in bother.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘Because part of what she told us may well be true: that this Deborah had stolen Terry Brady from her. My guess is she wanted to have her own back on Mr Brady for leaving her.’

  ‘By having him charged with murder? And of someone she didn’t know?’

  ‘And who no one else knew. She would have gleaned that much from the fact that our advertisement asked if anyone recognised her.’

  ‘But he might have been hanged!’

  ‘Not necessarily. He’d be able to produce the real Deborah, if she exists. And there’d have to be a trial first,’ pointed out Daniel. ‘At least we’ve moved forward. We now know who both women are. We also know Kathleen wanted to find out something to do with the army. And she was stabbed with what could have been a military-type blade, the same blade being used to mutilate Eileen O’Donnell.’

  ‘But you said yourself, the blade that killed her may have nothing at all to do with the military,’ said Abigail.

  ‘The RSM we spoke to at the barracks lied about Kathleen going there,’ said Daniel. ‘And she was only here for a few days before she was murdered, and the only places she went to in that short time were the barracks and the museum. Everything so far suggests her death is connected with the army, in some way. And the fact that both women were killed shows this was no random attack. They were targeted. I think our next move is to return to the museum and report what we’ve found out to Mr Steggles.’

  ‘Do you mind if we go to the hotel first?’ asked Abigail. ‘I could really do with a cup of tea.’

  ‘There’ll be tea at the museum,’ said Daniel. ‘And possibly biscuits.’

  ‘The hotel first,’ said Abigail firmly. ‘After our experience at the O’Donnells’, I just need to take a break from it for a moment.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  As they entered the lobby of their hotel, they were confronted by the excited figure of William Bickerstaff pacing around. When he saw them he hurried over. ‘I’ve been waiting for you for ages!’ he burst out. ‘So the bodies have been identified!’ When he saw the suspicious look Daniel and Abigail gave one another, he said, almost smugly, ‘A good reporter cultivates important connections.’

  ‘Like Karl, the mortuary attendant at the infirmary,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Amongst others,’ said Bickerstaff. He gave a satisfied grin. ‘Kathleen Donlan, who was staying with Mrs Eileen O’Donnell. The proof the two murders are connected. Now we know there’s a link between the two women, I’m going to Newton Street and see what Inspector Grimley says about it. See if he still insists there’s nothing to investigate. Would you like to come with me? You might be able to discern something useful from the way he responds.’

  ‘It looks as if we’ll have to postpone that cup of tea,’ murmured Daniel to Abigail as they followed Bickerstaff out of the hotel.

  As they walked to Newton Street police station, Bickerstaff plied them with questions, eager to find out what information they might have learnt, but Daniel and Abigail did their best to remain non-committal.

  Apart from a uniformed sergeant on duty at the desk, the reception area was empty when they arrived at the police station.

  ‘Is Inspector Grimley available?’ demanded Bickerstaff.

  ‘Who wants to see him?’ enquired the sergeant.

  ‘William Bickerstaff from the Manchester Guardian. And Mr Daniel Wilson and Miss Abigail Fenton.’

  ‘Wait here,’ grunted the sergeant.

  He disappeared through a door at the back, reappearing a moment later.

  ‘The inspector will be with you,’ he said.

  ‘In his office?’ asked Bickerstaff.

  ‘He said he’ll see you here.’

  ‘But we have important information,’ said Bickerstaff. ‘It would be better if we were to see him away from where the public can hear.’

  The sergeant looked around the otherwise empty reception area.

  ‘You’re the only public here,’ he pointed out. With that, he returned to leafing through some papers on his desk.

  ‘Typical!’ snorted Bickers
taff to Abigail and Daniel. ‘He’s doing this because he doesn’t like me. If anyone else was in here they could pick up this latest information and go to one of the Guardian’s rivals with it! I’m aiming for an exclusive!’

  They waited, watching the clock. In the time they waited, no one else came in from the street. After ten minutes Inspector Grimley appeared, accompanied by a uniformed sergeant.

  ‘Sergeant Merton,’ muttered Bickerstaff darkly to Daniel and Abigail.

  ‘All right, Bickerstaff, what do you want?’ demanded the inspector aggressively.

  ‘We’ve got information regarding the double murder,’ said Bickerstaff. ‘The young Irish woman who was stabbed to death at the museum, and the woman whose body was found in the museum cellar. The young woman who was stabbed was called …’ He stopped as he realised he’d forgotten her name, and turned to Daniel and Abigail.

  ‘Kathleen Donlan,’ said Abigail. ‘She was staying with the woman whose face was sliced off: Mrs Eileen O’Donnell.’

  ‘See, Inspector!’ said Bickerstaff triumphantly. ‘Two women from the same address murdered at the same place and possibly on the same day! Now you’ve got their names, surely you have to investigate.’

  Grimley glared at them, an unfriendly scowl on his face. ‘All right, you’ve brought me this new information. It’s noted, and we’ll look into it.’

  ‘And that’s all?’ asked Bickerstaff.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I told these two before: with a case like this there’s little or no chance at getting to the bottom of it, not with the resources we’ve got. If either of them was someone important, there might be time to dig into it. But they were both nobodies, by all accounts.’

  ‘Can I quote you on that, Inspector?’ snapped Bickerstaff angrily. ‘“We’re not going to bother investigating her murder because neither was of any importance. We only investigate crimes against important people.”’

  ‘Ah, now we have it!’ growled Grimley. ‘That’s what all this is about. You stirring things up against the police and the people who run this city, trying to get the rabble to rise up. That’s what you want, isn’t it! Bricks thrown through our windows. Agitating the mob against the mill owners.’ Then a sarcastic leer crossed his face as he added, ‘But then, maybe you’re doing that to divert attention from what really happened.’