The Atlantic Street Murder by Malcolm Archibald

Author:Malcolm Archibald [Archibald, Malcolm]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Next Chapter
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

'When did this happen?' Watters stood inside the door of the cell, looking down at the twisted body. O'Halloran had been bitter in life; in death, she seemed small and insignificant, curled on the bed with her black hair a tangle across her face.

'This morning, Sergeant.' The turnkey sounded indifferent to the death of one of his charges.

Watters bent over the body. There were bruises on O'Halloran's neck and throat; her eyes were wide, and her tongue protruding from her mouth. 'Somebody has strangled her,' he said. 'How did it happen?'

'Her husband came to see her, Sergeant. You said to take note of any visitors, so I did.' The turnkey seemed pleased that he had managed to do something right. 'Here's his address.'

Watters read the scribbled note. 'Johnathan Wild, 1 Peel Street, London.' He grunted. 'Could you describe Mr Wild?'

The turnkey screwed up his face. 'Not very well, Sergeant. He was English though, London born and bred I'd say with a charming manner about him.'

'He is also dead,' Watters said bluntly.

'What?'

'Jonathan Wild was a master criminal who did the Tyburn jig over a hundred years ago,' Watters said. 'You've been duped, man.' He held the paper under the turnkey's nose. 'This is as false as a leather guinea!' Crumpling it up, Watters threw the note onto the floor. 'God, man! What in creation were you thinking? You let some yahoo dance in here, murder this woman, and prance out again.'

'He never danced, sir.' The turnkey seemed hurt by the suggestion. 'He just walked like anybody else. Save for his boots. They were raised. They were higher than they should be.'

Watters took a deep breath. 'Was he a tall man, then?'

'Lord, no, Sergeant. He was only the same size as me.'

'So his boots made him taller?'

'No, bless you, Sergeant. That's what I'm a-telling you. He was only a little fellow, so his boots made him bigger, the same size as what we are.'

'I see.' The murderer had not been the tall and elegant Christopher then. He had a last look at O'Halloran. That was the second murder. He hoped there would be no more.

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