Who Wants to Live Forever? (8 page)

“Hello all,” she began. “Have you had a good week? Are you ready for the next instalment on our historical journey?”

“Before we start,” I said, “I went to the library in Blackpool this week to see if I could find out anything about either murder. I found practically nothing. How did you manage to get so many details?”

“I’m glad that the course has stimulated your interest so much. I hoped it would for all of you. All I’ll say, though, is that it has taken me years of research to get this far. I did use libraries — much of my work took place in the pre-Internet days — but you have to be selective in where you go. If you want information about something that happened in Manchester, for example, then the best source is the local newspapers from that area, and you generally only find them in libraries in Manchester. So it doesn’t surprise me that the Blackpool library had no such details. Remember, the cases I’m talking about aren’t the high-profile ones that everybody has heard of. In general, they concern ordinary people and seemingly ordinary circumstances.”

I felt a little deflated. I was keen to know more, but I hadn’t gone about it in the correct way – and, even if I had, how could I have expected to find out something that Louise had missed when this had been her life’s work? Rather than Poirot to the rescue, I now realised I was the much less effective Hastings.

Louise smiled at me, as if she had read my thoughts, and continued. “All right, then, let’s press on. Tonight, I want to look at another case, the shooting of Harold Scott in Rochdale in 1933 — and yes, that’s
Rochdale
as in
Greater Manchester Rochdale
according to the modern metropolitan boundaries.”

“I wasn’t going to mention that,” I said, “but just wanted to clarify. Is Len Phillips the same as Enid Rodgers now, all dead and buried — and I wasn’t trying to make a joke there?”

“Yes, Ethan. You’re in possession of all the available facts, so there’s not much more to say. Other than bear everything you’ve heard in mind, and try to look at the whole picture rather than thinking of them as individual isolated episodes.”

“I’m still unsure where this is all heading,” said Debbie. “Is there really nothing else that we can talk about during class?”

“No, there really isn’t. And, I’m sure you’ll agree, these cases have already given you quite an insight into Lancashire life at the time, and I hope to expand on that over the coming weeks. Now, shall I begin?”

“Go on, Louise,” said Trish. “You know we all want to hear about it. Debbie’s only pulling your leg.”

“Right, then. As I said, the subject matter for tonight is the shooting of Mr Harold Scott in Rochdale on Friday ninth June 1933 — yes, Ethan, another Friday killing. And another where we have the facts but not, in my opinion, a satisfactory conclusion. Harold was a barge owner and had traversed the canals for years. He was seventy-two years in age, but had grown up at a time when the Rochdale Canal was regularly used to transport goods — such as cotton, wool, coal, limestone, timber and salt — to and from Lancashire and Yorkshire. However, as the twentieth century wore on, this mode of transport became less and less profitable, and the volume of traffic dwindled significantly.

“Nevertheless, Harold remained on the water, and lived in his barge even when it was no longer hired to carry goods.
The Rochdale Captain
was a regular sight as it traversed the canal’s length, from Castlefield in Manchester across to Sowerby Bridge.”

“Doesn’t that route go close to where Enid Rodgers lived?”

“Yes, it does, Ethan, around the conjunction of the rivers Irwell and Irk. That isn’t where the murder happened, though, as it was definitely in Rochdale, but it does provide a curious link. Well, I find it curious, even if nobody else does. Anyway, as I was saying, Harold regularly travelled the canal, and he liked to take passengers along with him as well. Female passengers. He might have been in his seventies, but he still enjoyed the company of the opposite sex.”

“Then there’s hope for me still,” muttered Trish. Then, embarrassedly, she realised that her whisper had been heard by all. “Sorry,” she added, head down to try and hide her blushes. Debbie looked across at her, a strange look on her face, and I wondered if she found Trish’s off-the-cuff remark slightly distasteful.

I looked round quickly; Gail looked as if she hadn’t heard the comment, although I was sure she must have done, and Emma was staring at Gail. I wondered what that was all about.

Louise just smiled. “Harold had a long list of female passengers, although only ever one at a time. He usually stayed with each one for around three to six months, and he was well known for his appetites, shall we say. His latest companion was a lady called Rose Ember. We know that about her, but I’m afraid we know very little more.

“And so we come to the night of the murder, in June 1933. The barge was moored up when witnesses reported hearing two revolver shots. Unfortunately, they didn’t report this at the time, but only the next day, when the bodies were discovered. The barge had slipped its mooring in the night and was drifting aimlessly along the canal. A police officer was sent to bring it under control and to locate Harold, who they assumed had left the barge and gone on an all-night drinking session; when he wasn’t entertaining the ladies, he enjoyed his ale, and would regularly frequent hostelries which paid, shall we say, scant respect to the licensing laws, especially where closing time was concerned.”

“It seems to be well known that this went on,” said Trish. “Why didn’t the authorities put a stop to it?”

“Probably because the local bobby was often one of the people who stayed behind after hours for a few drinks and a sing-song. In this case, though, Harold
hadn’t
been at an all-night drinking session, for the constable found him on blood-soaked sheets in his bunk. He died from a single bullet to the heart. Nothing appeared to have been stolen — as far as anybody could make out, all of the possessions of Harold and Rose were still there.”

“So she did it, then,” I said. “Did they find her in this case?” I already knew what the answer would be.

“It isn’t as simple as that. No, there was no sign of Rose, nor of the gun. But the witnesses distinctly heard two gunshots, and only one bullet was found in Harold. Neither was the second bullet lodged anywhere on the barge; they searched it rigorously during the investigation and that was one of the key elements during the trial.”

“Whose trial? Rose’s?” asked Gail.

“Let me finish. My, you’re an impatient bunch,” added Louise, though we could all see that she enjoyed the fact that, once again, she had captured our interest. “No, not Rose. She was never seen again. But there was a lot of blood leading towards the side of the barge, and the police eventually concluded that the second bullet had done for Rose, and the killer had removed her body. Perhaps he’d intended to come back and remove Harold’s as well later, but the barge slipping its moorings had put an end to that plan; had it remained tied up, nobody would have investigated, as it was common for barges to remain tied up for days at a time if they had no goods to transport. It isn’t like today where the canals are full of holidaymakers and novice barge-handlers.”

“Don’t remind me,” I said. “I hired a barge on the Lancaster Canal a few years ago and it was a nightmare. It had a mind of its own — I’d steer to go one way, it would go the other, and once it ended up turning completely round in the water so we ended up facing the way we’d just come from.” I paused, as it brought back memories of happier times, before the rancorous split. “Never again,” I muttered.

“Well, Harold was an accomplished canal traveller, so he’d have had no such problems. There was a pub a hundred yards or so from the mooring point, and Harold was well known there, as was Rose. A few nights before the murder, he’d been seen arguing vehemently with one of the newer customers, a drunkard called Vince Marsland. Nobody liked Marsland. When the police followed this up, they found Marsland living rough in a nearby wood. Amongst his possessions — and this was the clincher at the trial — they found a Webley Mark IV revolver, and a clip with two bullets missing. From the smell of gunsmoke, it was concluded that the revolver had been fired recently. This type of pistol was standard British issue during the First World War, and Marsland was a veteran of that conflict; he was one of the survivors at Ypres, as immortalised in McCrae’s poem
In Flanders Fields
.

“As they dug deeper into Marsland’s past, they found that he hadn’t always been a homeless drunkard. In fact, after returning from the war he became a successful banker, until his wife left him. Then, he turned to drink, lost everything, and eventually became homeless. Only one goal kept him from using the pistol on himself: finding the man who had taken his wife — and his life — away. Of course, Harold Scott was that man — Marsland’s wife was one of the first of Scott’s companions. And when he saw him in that canal-path pub, well, that’s when the argument began.

“Marsland never denied any of this, but he did deny doing anything afterwards. He claimed he left the pub in a foul mood but just went back to his makeshift tent. He claimed he fired the revolver twice in an attempt to bag a rabbit, but missed — the gun jumped on firing, and needed a practised, and sober, hand to be truly accurate. He claimed they must have been the two shots heard by witnesses.

“The prosecution, on the other hand, asked why a bullet of the same calibre, 11.6 millimetres, was dug out from Scott’s body. Marsland could only reply that many of those guns were still in existence, and anybody could have had and used one. The jury didn’t believe him, but Marsland wasn’t sentenced to death. The judge had some sympathy for his predicament and also took note of his distinguished war record, and sentenced him to life in prison. It was all academic, though, for Marsland died two years later in Strangeways, from a destroyed liver as the result of all his heavy drinking.”

Louise stopped then, waiting for us to speak. I didn’t let her down. “So I suppose the point of all this is, did Rose really die or did she shoot Scott and get off, pardon the pun, Scott-free.”

“Yes, Ethan, that is right. Why would Marsland shoot Rose? And if he did, why would he take her body away and not Harold’s? He was a strong man; carrying Harold’s corpse would not have been a problem, and then it would have made it seem likely that Harold had committed the murder, not himself.”

“Perhaps he was too drunk to think that logically,” said Debbie.

“Yes, he might have been, but if he was that drunk, why did he take Rose’s body? It wasn’t as if he could have thrown her overboard at sea and let the ocean take her; any body in the canal would soon have been discovered. And, if he was guilty, wherever he did take her, her body was never found. So once again, there are quite a few things to ponder on here. Why don’t we go for our coffee break and talk about this more in fifteen minutes’ time?”

***

Emma remained in the classroom. She hadn’t said a word during the entire evening, and I wondered what was troubling her.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” I said to Trish. “Could you get me a coffee, please? White, no sugar,” I added, handing her a few coins.

I returned to the classroom and walked over to Emma. “Why don’t you come and join us?” I asked. She jumped as if she had been so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that she hadn’t known I was there. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Is anything wrong?”

For a moment, I thought she was going to tell me everything, but then I saw her jaw clench shut and realised now probably wasn’t the right time. “Okay, I can see you’re busy right now, but how about afterwards? The rest of us are going for a drink when the class finishes, and you’d be very welcome to join us.”

Emma stared at me, and then she smiled. It was a genuine, warm smile. “Thanks, Ethan, I appreciate that. Honestly, I do. I’d love to, but I can’t. There’s something I have to do afterwards …” Her voice trailed off and she retreated once more into the private world that I had just awoken her from.

Puzzled, I left her and went to join the others. Trish handed me my coffee. “What was all that about?”

“Oh, I was just asking Emma if she wanted to join us for a drink afterwards, but she said she can’t make it.”

Gail looked up from her cup as I mentioned this, and I was sure I detected a look of panic on her face. She saw me looking at her, so, trying to avoid an awkward situation, I said the first thing that came into my head. “How is your husband doing?”

“Why? What have you heard?”

“Nothing. Why, should I have done?” I looked around at the others, but Trish just shrugged her shoulders, and Debbie shook her head. “I was just wondering whether he had any more international journeys planned with his job.”

“Oh.” I detected a sense of relief in her answer. “No,” she added slowly, “I explained all that last week. I told you that the reason I was doing the course was because he was going to be located in the office for a few weeks. Apart, of course, from his trip to Stockholm last Wednesday. But he was back by weekend.”

“So he’s been working in London since he returned, has he?” asked Debbie. Trish darted us both glances that seemed to say
I told you that in confidence
, but it was too late now to withdraw our questions. Thankfully, Gail didn’t appear to notice the frantic gestures that were passing amongst the three of us.

“Yes, of course…” And then Gail stopped and looked at the three of us. “Apart from last Friday, of course, when he came home unexpectedly. They do that sometimes, you know, at Head Office, send one of the key managers incognito to check out a regional store. They usually pretend they are new starters, cleaning tables or something like that. The staff don’t know him round here so he was able to go into the local store and see how they work close up. But why do you ask?”

“No reason,” said Trish. “We’re just curious about his role, that’s all. It must be
very
exciting.”

Gail mumbled something incoherent, but it was evident that she didn’t want to say any more on the topic. I decided to change the subject by asking her, “Are you joining us again for a drink after class?”