Stroke of Bad Luck

Diane Janes

Description

On a bitter day in January 1934 a young woman pays an unexpected visit to the occupant of the condemned cell in Armley Jail in Leeds. The man is Ernest Brown, who stands convicted of the murder of his employer, Frederick Morton, and is soon to be hanged. The woman is Florence Morton, the victim's sister. Florence knows that Ernest is a bad lot. He deserted from the army, acquired a criminal record for theft and drunken driving, and has admitted to having had an affair with the victim's wife. But did he kill her brother, Freddy Morton? Based on a true story, the mystery surrounding Freddy Morton's death unfolds page by page, drawing the reader into a fascinating web of conflicting statements, competing loyalties, and a seemingly impossible murder scenario. As the clock ticks and the day of Ernest's execution approaches, will Florence manage to discover the truth about the brutal murder of her brother?

Sujets

• Leeds
• Bradford

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 juin 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781789019735
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

OTHER TITLES BY DIANE JANES

FICTION
The Pull of the Moon
Why Don’t You Come for Me?
Swimming in the Shadows
Stick or Twist
The Magic Chair Murder
The Poisoned Chalice Murder

NON-FICTION
Edwardian Murder:
Ightham & the Morpeth Train Robbery
Poisonous Lies: The Croydon Arsenic Mystery
The Case of the Poisoned Partridge
Death at Wolf’s Nick: The Killing of Evelyn Foster


Copyright © 2019 Diane Janes

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.


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ISBN 978 1789019 735

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

In memory of
Neville Finnemore
1926-2003
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
A Postscript From The Author
Chapter One
Friday 5 January 1934
His Majesty’s Prison, Armley, Yorkshire
As Albert Henshaw paused to unlock the final set of gates, he stole another quick glance at the young woman who was following him. He could see from the flush in her cheeks that she was aware of the curiosity she was generating among the warders, and that she did not welcome it; pretending not to notice the sidelong glances and occasional blatant stares from the men who unlocked each set of doors to admit her, then locked them again when she was safely through.
When he himself had opened the final set of gates, then stepped aside in order that she should precede him, she acknowledged the gesture with the briefest of nods. She was a proper lady all right. No doubt her father had laid out good money, in order that she should be schooled to walk straight and talk proper. Very neatly turned out too, thick tweed coat, brown stockings and sensible brogues – those fashionable little heels that were so popular just now, were no good with the pavements so icy – not but what she wouldn’t have come by motor car – she wasn’t the sort you’d see on the tram. Her hair was all but hidden under a mustard coloured hat with a green and brown band. Nothing fancy, but made of good quality stuff – a hat that would have cost a working man his week’s wages, Albert guessed.
‘Not far now, miss.’ He had half hoped to initiate some sort of conversation, but she just nodded again, tight lipped. Not being snooty, he decided. Most probably nervous. The forbidding atmosphere of the institution was bearing down on her. The smells, the noises, the metallic clatter and clang of gates and keys, which did not quite obliterate the sound of their footfalls, his the sturdy thump of a good strong pair of boots, hers a dainty feminine pitter-pat.
A different class of visitor to the norm. Alone too. He wondered whether the young woman’s father knew that she had come. A big part of him said that Armley Jail was no place for a well brought up young woman. He wouldn’t let his Mabel come visiting here, nor their two girls when they were old enough, neither. They might not talk posh like this young lady, but they were respectable and that’s a fact. He would have liked Mabel’s opinion of the unusual visitor, but he had been warned to say nothing about her to anyone outside. Instructions had come from the governor himself that there must be no loose talk, for fear of something about it appearing in the newspapers.
Well quite! What would the general public make of the news that a man convicted of murder was being visited by the victim’s sister? By rights the execution should have been tomorrow, but then word had come through that the condemned man was to be allowed an appeal. Ernest Brown wanted to see whether three judges down in London would have different ideas to a dozen Yorkshiremen, good and true, and in the meantime had come this letter from Miss Florence Morton, sister of the deceased, seeking permission to visit the condemned man, if you please. Albert Henshaw thought it distinctly irregular to say the least, but since Brown himself had raised no objection, there had apparently been nothing in the prison regulations to prevent it.
Naturally he could see why the governor would be concerned about the papers getting hold of it. Rumours of a visit from a member of the victim’s family might set all kinds of hares running. There was always a bleeding heart minority who seized on the least little thing to protest that a condemned man was innocent after all, or if not innocent then subject to some sort of extenuating circumstances, or if all else failed, to claim that the fellow hadn’t known what he was doing at the time. Abolitionists at heart of course. Well thankfully they didn’t run the country and those that did believed that justice should be done: a life for a life. That was the way it should be. However, Albert had always been a respecter of rules, so if the prison regulations said that Miss Florence Morton could come and visit, well so be it.
All the same, regulations notwithstanding, there was a whiff of something not quite right about the whole business. As a man who valued order and liked to see things done the proper way, Albert had initially been annoyed at the idea of this bold young woman, flaunting convention and pushing her way into what he thought of as his jail, but now that he was actually confronted with her, he saw that she was little more than a girl, screwing up her courage to accomplish what she evidently considered to be an important errand, and though he could not see what she hoped to gain by it, he couldn’t but admire her nerve.
When they finally reached the room where the visit was to take place and he had pulled out the chair for her to sit down – not a courtesy he had ever extended to Brown’s mother and sisters when they arrived, but somehow it had been automatic with Miss Morton – he reminded her that she must not attempt to push anything through the wire grill, nor take anything from Brown, if he attempted to make such a transaction the opposite way. After that Albert retired to a chair set in the furthest corner of the room, and observed the young woman – no more than twenty four or twenty five, at a guess – while she awaited the arrival of the prisoner, watching as she extracted a dainty, lace embroidered handkerchief from her bag and wiped her nose, then refolded the delicate little square and replaced it in her bag. After that she sat watching the door which led to the cell area, waiting for it to open.
Brown arrived a moment or two later, accompanied by Bottomley and Jordan, a couple of the warders who took turns to sit with him in pairs, on eight hourly shifts. Always two men in the cell with him and another on turnkey duty outside the door. You could take no chances with condemned men, though for the most part, they didn’t make much trouble. There was always a bit of curiosity about the ones who’d been sent down for murder. How did he occupy himself, other officers had wanted to know? Residence in the condemned cell excused a man from work. He got better food and kinder companionship than the regular prisoners. Cards and dominoes were provided for his use. Brown was a keen card player, so they said. He received frequent visits from the chaplain, who had been encouraging him to read his bible. In between times he wrote letters to his folks in Huddersfield. And he remained optimistic about his release.
‘Do you think he’s guilty?’ Albert had asked Joe Fazackerley, another of the men who had been detailed to sit with Brown.
‘Well he doesn’t think he is,’ had been Joe’s oblique reply.
‘How do you fancy his chances with the appeal?’ Albert had asked another of his fellow warders.
‘I wouldn’t put my shirt on him getting off.’
Possibly Brown was unaware of the generally held assessment. Certainly he did not look like a beaten man as he entered the room with a confident stride and his head held high. He was a taller than average man, with thick black hair and dark eyes which met another man’s without flinching. He had the fresh complexion of someone accustomed to being out of doors, and though he was not obviously handsome, women undeniably found him attractive – which was where part of the trouble lay, if what Albert had read in the Yorkshire Evening Post was to be believed. There was nothing whatever in his appearance which endeared him to Albert, who saw him only as typical of a type: not bad looking, but a rough, working man, none the less, and one with a penchant for drin