Murder. History. Mayhem.

Recently divorced, Ethan Hudson is looking for something to occupy his time and, encouraged by his daughter to get out more, he decides to sign up for a local evening history class. Hoping to meet new people, little does Ethan know that this course will change his life forever…

This is no ordinary history class. Instead, Ethan and his classmates are introduced to a series of mysterious murder cases that occurred over the last century within the county. At first they seem unrelated, but soon Ethan’s inquisitive and suspicious mind, fed on crime novels and detective shows, begins to see a pattern connecting the murders. But how could a series of murders dating back to 1911 have anything to do with the present day? And can Ethan solve the mystery before it is too late?

Who Wants to Live Forever?

Steve Wilson

www.CarinaUK.com

STEVE WILSON says: I suppose in many ways I’m a late-starter as far as writing goes, waiting until I bought my first PC in 2000 before beginning a novel from an idea that I’d been mulling over for some ten years. That novel eventually became a trilogy, but my writing was sporadic during much of the noughties.

Things began to gather pace once I became a member of a local writing group, where I found being amongst like-minded peers of great benefit, and in 2011 — after writing short stories for a couple of years — I registered for the National Novel Writing Month, with the aim of writing a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. And that’s how “Who Wants To Live Forever?” came into being.

The premise for this novel had been with me for half a dozen years, ever since I attained a Post Graduate Certificate in Creative Writing. Work commitments prevented me from completing the course to Masters level, but I had already started to map out my major writing project, around the topic of unsolved murders in Lancashire in the twentieth century, and those plans formed a basis of what eventually became the novel.

When I’m writing, I spend a lot of time on the web as I enjoy researching the stories almost as much as writing them. I try and make the plotlines factually accurate, although I have to be careful and try not to let the story go off on a tangent as my research inevitably leads on to other non-related topics.

As to the future, although I primarily write crime or mystery tales, I’d like to explore other genres, if only out of interest.

This book is dedicated to my wife and children, who have had to carry on conversations around me while I have immersed myself in my writing. Also to my friends and colleagues at Fylde Brighter Writers, whose support and constructive criticism have helped me become a better writer, and to Victoria, Helen and Sue for their editorial assistance and advice, which I have found invaluable.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Dedication

Prologue: Foreword — Thursday 14th September 2000

Chapter One: Week 1 — Overview — Tuesday 20th September 2011

Chapter Two: Week 2 — Manchester — Poisoning — Tuesday 27th September 2011

Chapter Three: Mike — Monday 3rd October 2011

Chapter Four: Week 3 — Ormskirk — Bludgeoning — Tuesday 4th October 2011

Chapter Five: Amber — Friday 7th October 2011

Chapter Six: Week 4 — Rochdale — Shooting — Tuesday 11th October 2011

Chapter Seven: Gail — Tuesday 11th October 2011

Chapter Eight: Week 5 — Bolton — Drowning — Tuesday 18th October 2011

Chapter Nine: Emma — Tuesday 25th October 2011

Chapter Ten: Week 6 — Vickerstown — Plummeting — Tuesday 1st November 2011

Chapter Eleven: Trish — Sunday 6th November 2011

Chapter Twelve: Week 7 — Elswick — Hit and Run — Tuesday 8th November 2011

Chapter Thirteen: Debbie — Sunday 13th November 2011

Chapter Fourteen: Week 8 — Accrington — Stabbing — Tuesday 15th November 2011

Chapter Fifteen: Louise — Monday 21st November 2011

Chapter Sixteen: Week 9 — Heysham — Suffocation — Tuesday 22nd November 2011

Chapter Seventeen: Week 10 — Darwen — Electrocution — Tuesday 29th November 2011

Chapter Eighteen: Mrs Rhodes’ Diary — Thursday 1st December 2011

Chapter Nineteen: Afterword — Summer 2022

Epilogue: Quebec — Wednesday November 30th 2022

Excerpt

Endpages

Copyright

Prologue

Foreword — Thursday 14th September 2000

Amber Davore looked down at the lifeless form splayed out on the bathroom floor. Just minutes earlier, that body had contained the hopes and dreams for the future of fifty-five-year-old Alan Ingleby; now, it was nothing more than an empty shell.

Amber had known about his heart problems, and had used the knowledge to full advantage. Steam rose in equal measures from the near-overflowing bath and the hot mug of tea that Ingleby had placed on the floor seconds before his departure from this world; Amber leant forward to turn the tap off, only just managing to stop herself in time. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered, incensed at her foolishness. Her own heart was trying to force its way out of her ribcage and she took slow, deep breaths in an attempt to regain a measure of calm. Her foot knocked the mug, splashing the hot brown liquid over Ingleby’s outstretched arm. She smiled, a mirthless smile; she had often heard it said that somebody was dying for a cup of tea, but perhaps this time Ingleby might be considered to have taken it literally. Her attempt at light jocularity only partially settled her nerves.

The bath was almost full, bringing Amber’s attention back to the present situation. She found the stopcock and turned the water off. That meant she wouldn’t have to be paddling in red-hot water while she completed her task. She spent the next half-hour correcting the wiring and making sure that everything appeared normal. Turning the water on again, she hesitated before shutting off the flow from the bath’s hot-water tap; Alan had been about to turn the cold water on when the current hit him, but once contact had been made the charge would have spread to reach all metal parts. There was no choice, though. She had to do it, to make certain that the electrical system really was back to normal; otherwise, when Ingleby’s daughter discovered the body in the morning when she came to collect him for work, the death would be treated as a murder, not an accident, and her life would become more difficult. Forensic science had made great developments over the decades, and the last thing she wanted was an investigation that might lead the police to her. Not now she was this close to her goal.

Steeling herself, she carefully reached out and touched the fitting with a single finger; there wasn’t even the slightest feeling of discomfort. Full of confidence now, she turned both hot and cold taps off and on repeatedly, laughing as the water started and stopped, splashing into the foam that Ingleby had been preparing to luxuriate in. Amber recalled the look of disbelief that had crossed his face when realisation came, a fraction of a second before the puff of life escaped his body to be encapsulated into her essence; he knew what she’d done, although he had no idea why she had done it. And he never would. Not now.

Amber checked again to make sure that everything looked normal. The bath was almost full; everything else was neatly in place. The bath! It was too full. If Ingleby had died while it was still running, it would have overflowed and water would have flooded the bathroom. Alternatively, if he had turned the water off first, and died while taking a drink prior to stepping in — which would certainly fit with the spilt tea on the floor — then the bath wouldn’t have been this full. It was lucky she’d noticed in time. She reached in and pulled the plug out to let some of the water escape, and was surprised to find the bath was still pleasantly hot. An idea formed. What better opportunity to wash away all vestiges of the deed than to have a nice long soak amongst the soapy bubbles? Besides, she was in no hurry.

She undressed slowly and walked over to the steamed-up mirror, wiping it with the back of her hand so she could get a good look at herself. Hmm, that is definitely not bad for my age, she thought. It was as if she had lost twenty years in an instant, with barely a wrinkle or an ounce of fat to be seen. Only the closest of inspections would have led anybody to believe that she was any older than her mid-thirties. And that was externally; internally, she felt as if she had only recently said farewell to her teenage years. “It’s a good job this isn’t the sixteenth century—” she laughed “—else I’d probably be burnt at the stake for being a witch. And they wouldn’t be far wrong,” she acknowledged. After all, hadn’t that been behind her choice of name, with Amber being the real name of one of the witch actresses in Buffy the Vampire Slayer? A far cry from the vampire films she had seen in years past, with whimpering women victims there only for the delights of Bela Lugosi. “Am-ber Da-vor-ez,” she said, in her best Transylvanian accent, enunciating each syllable as it tripped off her tongue.

She climbed into the bath and basked for a good half-hour before the waters at last began to cool. After drying both herself and the bath — as the water had obviously been used, there was no longer any point in trying to pretend that Ingleby had died after filling the bath — and cleaning the floor around the corpse, she put the damp towels in the laundry basket. Then she carried the now-cold mug of tea downstairs, poured the contents down the sink, and washed and dried the mug. She took a look at her watch. It was half an hour before midnight.

She took the back-door key from her pocket; it had been a simple task to take the original from Ingleby’s jacket while he was lunching in the company canteen, and she had been able to replace it before he had noticed it had gone. With the wax impression she had taken, it had been an easy job to make the crude — but effective — key that she now held. Amber was certain that nobody had spotted her entering the house that evening, but it was a little too early to leave; the last thing she needed was to be seen now, just as everything was more or less finished. She went into the living room and sat in the dark, waiting for the clock to tick slowly over, and almost three hours later she left the house for the last time.

As for Amber —Well, she thought, this is the part I’m used to now. I’ll just lie low and remain patient, keep a low profile until it’s time. Just once more, that was all. She turned the corner and disappeared into the night.

Chapter One

Week 1 — Overview

Tuesday 20th September 2011

I stood outside the college wondering whether or not I’d done the correct thing; it had all seemed so worthwhile less than a week earlier when I had signed up for the Local History course that the Adult Education Department had included amongst their offerings for the new term, but now it came to it – well, to say I was having doubts was an understatement of hyperbolic proportions.

I suppose it was the thought of the others on the course that bothered me. I had seen some of them while enrolling, and they all looked so much more, well, scholarly really, than I was. It had come home to me when I was about to leave home an hour or so earlier, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror; what I saw didn’t exactly inspire me, and I almost turned back.

When you don’t see yourself every day — I don’t mean looking in the mirror when you’re having a shave or anything like that, but really seeing yourself — well, you tend to build up an image that doesn’t conform to reality. At least, that was what I did. But as I looked closely at my reflection in the glass, I had to accept that time really had taken its toll. Yes, that really was me looking back at myself: Ethan Hudson, late fifties, recently retired, with thinning brown hair flecked with grey. Or, to be more accurate, thinning grey hair flecked with brown. Still slim, I thought, trying to ignore the paunch that hung over the top of my trousers, obscuring sight of my belt. But I wasn’t kidding anybody. Who on earth would be interested in a body like that? So all I had to go on was personality, and that had taken a back seat ever since the acrimonious divorce two years ago that had destroyed whatever vestiges of confidence I might have had. With my daughter married but now living in Hampshire, and my son away for the next year as a volunteer on a project in Argentina, I was, I suppose, living a lonely existence; with post-work days seeming to last forever, it hadn’t taken a lot of prompting to make me take a look in the Gazette Adult Education Department’s column advertising the new session’s courses.

It was actually my daughter, Julie, who had persuaded me to take this action, during one of our weekly phone calls:

“Hi, Dad, how are you this week?”

“Much the same, much the same.”

“So that means you’re still stuck at home every night, then?”

“Well, love, it isn't that easy. Not at my age…”

“Of course it is, Dad! Especially at your age. You’ve no commitments, nothing to stop you getting out there. I worry about you. It isn't as if I can just pop in and see you every night, is it?”

“Hey, I don’t need looking after to that extent. I’m quite capable of doing something about it myself.”

“Then go on and do it. Why don’t you book on one of those evening classes? It’ll give you something to think about, and you might meet somebody nice there.”

“Oh, so you’re the matchmaker now, are you?”

“We’re just concerned, that’s all.”

“We? So you discuss me with your friends, do you?”

“Very funny, Dad. I was talking with Gary last night and he feels the same as I do. He was even talking about cutting his volunteering trip short and coming back home.”

“Tell your brother he’s not to do that. He’ll regret it forever if he does. I’m really proud of what he’s doing out there, so, next time you speak, tell him he must keep at it.”

“I wish you’d talk to him. Skype is so easy to use.”

“Now, Jules, you know that I’m a bit of a technophobe. I just can’t seem to get the hang of computers, so, much as I’d love to, it just isn't me, I’m afraid.”

“Then why not look for a beginners’ course in computing? That would solve both problems.”

“It just doesn’t sound interesting enough, and if I wasn’t interested I’d stop going.”

“Okay then, why not follow one of your interests? You’re always saying you could do better than those detectives you watch on the TV. There must be something in that area you could enrol on.”

“Oh, I tried, but ‘How to catch a murderer in ten easy lessons’ was all booked up.”

“Ha ha, very funny. You should be on the stage. But, seriously, you know I’m right, don’t you? You love your puzzles, so even if there isn't a course for prospective Inspector Morses, there must be something that will stretch your brain.”

“Okay, you win. I’ll look, I promise.”

“Good. And I know you. Don’t think you can get away with making something up and telling me about it during our phone calls. I’ll expect you to show me some solid proof when I next visit.”

“Will do. When is that again, late November?”

“Yes, that’s right. I’m coming up for a work conference, so Dave won’t be with me. I’m presenting my first advertising campaign, so it’s a big chance for me.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But it’s a lot of pressure.”

“Are all the junior staff involved?”

“No, I’m the only one.”

“That must be really good, then. So let’s get together afterwards, and I promise I’ll have something to tell you about my reintegration into society by then.”

Promise made, I knew I couldn’t let my daughter down. Most of the courses on offer didn’t appeal to me, and I was beginning to think that I’d have to take something I wouldn’t enjoy just to placate Julie when I saw one that caught my attention:

Local History — Learn about life in Lancashire during the last hundred years. Your experienced course presenter, Louise James, will take you on a ten-week journey through the county’s many towns and cities and you will experience life as it was for the inhabitants in those times.

I had lived on the Fylde all my life, yet knew very little about the rest of the county. This course sounded as if it would be interesting and so I decided to enrol. It had taken everything I could muster to venture to the enrolment day, but at first a small amount of self-assurance had returned, and when I saw a few women enrolling on the courses I even began to look forward to this evening with an anticipation I hadn’t felt for over thirty years. Although I wasn’t used to interacting at a social level with the opposite sex, I found the prospect to be far from unattractive.

When I mentioned what I’d done to her, Julie was a little surprised to hear that I’d be studying history. “I hope you’re not the only one on the course,” she joked. I laughed; I was looking forward to the course with a confidence I hadn’t felt in a long time.

But now, standing looking at the imposing college entrance, that confidence dissipated. I might have turned away if I hadn’t remembered the money; granted, a hundred pounds wasn’t a lot to spend on a ten-week course, but I’d paid it and I wasn’t going to let it go that easily. Taking a deep breath, I pushed through the doors and entered the foyer. Nobody was about, but a laminated sign on the noticeboard directed me to follow the purple line to room M6 for “A course in Lancashire history” and I followed the purple footsteps pasted on the floor — intersecting at times with yellow for “Photography” and red for “Life Drawing” — until I came to the designated classroom.

As I opened the door it was like stepping back in time to my first day at senior school. The classroom was big enough for thirty or so pupils, containing five large circular tables and a front teacher’s desk. The two tables towards the rear of the room and the one in the centre all had chairs stacked on top of them, leaving just the two at the front for me to sit at. One of those was empty, the other had half a dozen people already sitting around it, and a dozen eyes focused on me as I entered.

I headed for the far, unoccupied, table, but a woman who looked to be in her thirties rose from her seat and directed me towards the seventh chair around the nearest table. As I sat I took a closer look at the other occupants. The three women, who I judged to be in their thirties, forties and fifties, included two who I had seen at enrolment six days earlier; I noticed now that only one of them wore a wedding ring. The woman who had directed me to my seat hadn’t been there at enrolment — at least, not while I was there — and the other two were a man and woman barely out of their teens.

All seven of us sat there, some of us fidgeting nervously, all of us trying to avoid eye contact, as we wondered what was going to happen next. The three women were to my right, the two youngsters to my left, with the woman who had directed me to my seat almost opposite me. I looked at my watch — two minutes past seven — and unwittingly caught her eye.

“Yes,” she said, “I think it’s about time we started. I had hoped that we might have a few more late enrollers, but it looks like half a dozen is all we’re going to have on the course.” She looked round at the six of us. “I recognise a couple of you from last week, but not all,” she added, looking in my direction as she spoke.

“Just in case any of you have come to the wrong room, this is the Local History course, where we’ll be taking a closer look at some of the events that have taken place across Lancashire over the last hundred years.” She looked to see if anybody had come to the wrong location — again, I noticed her glance more at me than anybody else — and then continued. “Good, it seems we’re all here for the right reasons.”

I looked at her as she began giving us a brief introduction to the topic. She was almost librarian-looking, with short bobbed brown hair and glasses; she reminded me of Donna Reed in the alternate-reality portion of It’s A Wonderful Life, but I soon saw that she portrayed none of the timidity of that character.

“Before we begin,” she said, cutting across my mind-wandering, “I think it would be helpful if we all introduced ourselves and said a little about what we hope to gain during the next few months. I’ll start. I’m Louise James, and, as you’ve gathered, I’ll be teaching this short course and, over the next ten weeks, I hope to introduce you all to some of the more interesting events and characters associated with the county of Lancashire since 1911. Some people think of history in terms of wars and nations, but it is much, much more than that. A single unsolved murder that took place a century ago can still have relevance today…”

There was a sharp gasp from one of the women to my right, but when I instinctively turned to look all three looked deep in concentration on Louise’s words and I wondered if I had imagined it.

“Everybody has a history, something that is personal to each and every one of you, and I want to begin by exploring that. So come on now, it’s your turn, stand up and introduce yourselves to the group. Tell us what you hope to get out of the course.”

I always hated that sort of thing, and I tried to sink down into my chair to become less noticeable, but Louise was looking directly at me and I had no choice. I stood and, in an unsteady voice, I began. “Er, I’m Ethan Hudson, and I’m fifty-nine years old. When I was younger, I hated my name, but now it’s come back into fashion it makes me feel a bit younger.” I could feel sweat beginning to trickle down my temple. That wasn’t what she meant when she said introduce yourself but I felt as if my mouth had been working of its own volition. “Yes, er, I’m divorced, two children, one married and living in the South of England and the other on a sabbatical to South America for a year, so I don’t get to see much of them, unfortunately. I’m retired, but I worked for most of my career as a loss adjuster at a variety of insurance firms across Lancashire. So I’ve travelled about the county, but know very little about it, really. What am I hoping to get from the course? It’s strange in a way. I always hated history when I was at school, but now I’m older I often find myself wondering about the past. Especially as a lot of it is my own past, but you don’t look upon things in the same way when you’re a child, do you? It’s the chance to learn a little about the county I was born in that attracted me when I saw the advert. And that’s about it, I suppose,” I said, hastily sitting down.

“Thank you,” said Louise, and her warm smile suddenly made me feel a lot better about myself. She turned her gaze to my right, to the first of the three women, the one with the wedding ring on. She had short multicoloured hair, a mixture of light and dark brown, and my immediate instinct was to wonder whether or not she dyed it to cover the grey. I judged her to be approaching sixty, but before I could glean any more information she stood and began to speak, in a strong, clear voice.

“My name is Gail Smythe and I’m a fifty-two-year-old housewife. My husband is the national manager of a fast-food franchise, and — as we don’t have children — I travel with him a lot as he goes to the head offices in America several times a year. He doesn’t have any overseas trips planned for the immediate future, but he works long hours and is often late home, so I was looking for something to fill some of my spare time. We’re originally from London — we met at the Isle of Wight festival, as we were both big fans of The Who at the time, and we moved to this area two years ago when the company moved its UK headquarters to Manchester. As I’ve never really thought much about life in the north before, I considered it might be useful to learn something about the area I now live in, and the people who live here. I could also pass the information on, as it might be of use to my husband in his job.”

She sat down, and I wondered if she had been the one who gasped when Louise spoke. Something about what she’d said didn’t quite ring true. I vaguely remembered the Isle of Wight festival as taking place around the time of Woodstock, which I knew was in 1969. I did a quick mental calculation. If Gail had gone to the festival in, say, 1969 or 1970, then she would only have been around eleven or twelve. It was possible, of course, but it just didn’t seem right, but I tried not to be overly judgemental; perhaps I was wrong about the dates and the festival had been in the mid-seventies after all.

The woman next to her, who had short-cut dark reddish-brown hair, rose and began to speak. “And I’m Trish Carson, and it isn’t short for Patricia or anything like that. Trish is the name on my birth certificate. I’m fifty-four, and a happily divorced businesswoman — some of you may have seen me during the working day, for I provide sandwiches for some of the larger employers in Lytham and the surrounding areas.” I glanced across at her, trying not to stare and make it too obvious. Fifty-four? I wouldn’t have thought her to be a day over forty-five. She didn’t notice that I was looking at her, and continued to introduce herself. “Like the others said, I too would like to know a little more about the county I’ve lived in for the last thirty years. I also thought it might be a good way of meeting new friends, as modern life doesn’t give us the same opportunities to socialise as our parents had. It would be interesting to learn how things were fifty and a hundred years ago, so we can see how things have changed, and it might make it easier to determine whether all of those changes have been for the better or not.”

As she sat down, with a slight crimson shade on her face, the third of the trio — a bobbed fair-haired beauty who looked to be in her mid-thirties and dressed as if she were ten years younger than that — stood, ready to tell us her own potted life story. “Let’s get this over, then,” she began, a little nervously. “I’m Deborah Havers-Home,” she said, carefully enunciating each syllable. “It’s spelt the same as the former Prime Minister that some of you will undoubtedly remember. And that’s all I have in common with him. I prefer to be called Debbie rather than my full name, as it sounds rather pretentious. It isn’t; I just wanted to keep my own surname when I married Mr Home. My job is very unglamorous — I’m an accounts clerk at a bakery, as I had to return to work when I left my husband.”

She went to sit down, then hurriedly rose again. “Oh, and in keeping with everyone else, I’m fifty-five years old and I am fascinated by the past, so I thought this was an ideal opportunity to be with like-minded people. I do know the county quite well, for I’ve travelled a lot over the years, but you can always learn something new. And, as…Trish said, an event like this can also be very useful for meeting people. I think it’s very important to have plenty of friends and acquaintances from all walks of life.”

I turned to look in her direction. My guesses were way off the mark tonight. Fifty-five? Surely not. But as I took a closer look, I could see signs around her eyes that she wasn’t quite as young as I’d first thought. I noticed the others glancing across at her too, and wondered whether there might be looks of envy from those of similar age to Debbie.

“Thank you,” said Louise, before turning towards the couple on my left. The youth rose, exuding aggression in his stance. “Mike Ryan. I’m one of the forgotten generation who haven’t been able to find a job thanks to the old establishment figures who make the decisions.” He almost spat the words out, and I could see from his looks that he counted Gail, Trish, Debbie and myself amongst the old establishment figures. With his long hair, sideburns, armless T-shirt and torn jeans he almost seemed to be a throwback from an earlier decade. “So I’ve plenty of time on my hands, and as the unemployed can do the course for a fiver, I decided to let you all have the benefit of my knowledge. I wasn’t expecting to be with so many old people, though,” he added.

There was silence for a second, then the girl alongside him said, “Okay, you’ve had your say. Sit down, Mike.” As he sat I noticed him casting a long and hard look at Gail, and a small smile played on his lips.

Trying to cover up the awkward silence, I said, “And finally, young lady?” I took a good look at her as I spoke, noting her long blonde hair and the too-heavy make-up that she’d applied around her eyes. She was dressed mainly in black, and with just a hint of black lipstick; I imagined she was perhaps an undecided Goth.

The girl paused for a moment, as if considering whether to answer or just get up and leave. Finally, she spoke. “Okay,” she said, remaining seated. “I’m Emma Wilkinson, I’ll be twenty next month, and I work on the tills at Lidl. And I’m only here because Mike told me to come.” She lowered her head, as if embarrassed at her admission; it was abundantly clear that she really didn’t want to be here. Then, as if she’d come to a decision, she added, “I was never very good at school, and I didn’t understand a lot of what the teachers said, so I never really bothered with any of it. I thought this might give me a chance to learn something for once.” Mike laughed, but not in a pleasant way. Emma immediately clammed up and lowered her head once more.

Once more, I tried not to be judgemental, but I found myself thinking that I didn’t like Mike at all. He seemed to exert an unhealthy influence over Emma, who might, given the chance, find this course extremely beneficial, even though the class was full of old people. Perhaps others felt the same, for Louise looked at her watch and said, “Normally we’d have a break around eight o’clock, but, as this is the first night, why don’t we have our tea now? The machines are in the hallway — you’ll have passed them when we came in — and we’ll meet back here in fifteen minutes. Okay?”

We all mumbled our agreement and stood to leave. It was noticeable that Mike and Emma remained behind — Emma half rose, but then looked at Mike and sat down again — while Louise dashed off, doubtless wondering just what she’d let herself in for.

“I’m just going to phone my husband,” said Gail, taking out an outdated mobile. I was a little surprised, as, from the way she had described her circumstances, I would have expected her to have the latest model, complete with all the apps; perhaps she struggled with new technology as much as I did, and a simple ‘call and text’ phone suited her best. I couldn’t even manage that.

“That just leaves the three of us, then,” said Trish. “Come on, let’s get a coffee.”

Debbie picked up her battered old satchel, and I said, “I’m sure we can leave our things here. They’ll be safe enough.”

“It isn’t that, E…Ethan? No, I take this everywhere with me. You see, I’m writing a novel, but I’m a bit embarrassed about anybody seeing it just yet.”

“A novel! Wow, I wish I had the ability to do something like that. You should be proud of it and want to show it off to everybody.”

“Perhaps when it’s finished. It’s all a bit of a jumble at the moment. I’m aiming to complete it before the year ends, so…but until then, I feel at bit…you know.”

“We understand,” said Trish, “and I agree with Ethan. Good on you.” They left the room and I followed along behind them while they chatted like old friends, even though I doubted that they’d ever met before the course began.

I thought about the other class members, and I felt a little bit like an outsider looking in. True, Debbie and Trish had been pleasant enough, but perhaps that was just out of politeness. If they were getting along as well as it appeared they were, would there be any room for me as a third wheel? Nerves began to get the better of me, and I wondered if coming here was the right thing or not. If it hadn’t been for the promise I made Julie, I might have left there and then. As I sipped the hot liquid masquerading as coffee I hoped that I hadn’t made a big mistake.

***

The rest of the evening went much better and I was glad I had decided to persevere. Louise was waiting for us all when we returned, and I noticed she had moved to the front teacher’s desk rather than try and join us at the table as one of the group.

“Tonight I’m just going to give you a bit of background,” she began. “I’ll leave the specifics for the remainder of the programme — nine specific events over nine weeks. What I want to cover this evening, then, is a little about Lancashire in the early part of the twentieth century, when in many towns of the county cotton was king, as the Confederates used to say.”

I scribbled notes while Louise talked; this was what I had signed up for, and I was glad I had decided not to leave during the coffee break. Louise continued with her background on the Lancashire of the last century, and before I knew it it was nine o’clock and time for the class to end.

“So tonight I’ve given you a basic overview of the county, rather than starting the course itself,” she concluded. “As I said before, that is partly because I want to talk about nine specific events in the remaining nine weeks, but I was originally going to do a different sort of introduction today, as a precursor to the first of the nine.”

“Why didn’t you, then,” asked Mike, “instead of making us sit through all that boring rubbish?”

“It wasn’t boring. I enjoyed it,” said Trish, and I could see Gail and Debbie nodding in agreement while Emma sank lower into her chair as if to distance herself from Mike’s attitudinal words.

“I’m sorry you found it boring,” said Louise slowly. “I hope you’ll find the rest of the course more interesting. If there is any more, that is.”

“Why? Won’t you be running any further classes?” I asked. “If it’s something any of us have said, I’m sure it wasn’t meant.” I cast a pointed look to my left as I spoke.

“No, Ethan, it’s nothing like that at all. In fact, I welcome controversy. There’s nothing like a good discussion to get the adrenalin flowing. No, it’s something entirely different. You see, in order for a course to run, a minimum of ten students are required. That’s a rule of the department. Although we only had four of you enrolling last Wednesday, and the other two enrolled by post, I expected that we’d have a few more dropping in tonight to increase the numbers, but that hasn’t happened. That was why I changed tonight’s introduction, as I didn’t want to make a start on the real content of the course if I couldn’t take it to its natural end.”

“So it’s all been for nothing,” I said, realising how disappointed I was that the course was not going to continue; it was quite a turnaround from my feelings an hour and a half earlier.

“Not necessarily,” said Louise. “I’ll submit my report, and I’ll include a recommendation that the course does continue, as we have a good group of different ages and opinions and I think it will be very valuable. Besides, I really do want to tell the nine separate tales, as I think there is something important about them. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that what I intend to cover could be, as they say, a matter of life and death.”

I wanted to ask what she meant by that, but before I had the chance to speak Gail was asking a question. “But if you said it was a department rule…” she began.

“Yes, it is. But rules are flexible at times. At break, I saw that there were many more people on the photography and life-drawing courses—” Mike snorted and muttered, “Perverts,” as she said this “—and,” said Louise, in a slightly louder voice, almost as if she were regretting what she had just said about the group, “I hope that our shortfall won’t be as important when taken into consideration with the extra numbers on those programmes. But, if any of you do know of anyone else who might like to come, please give them the details and get them to phone the department and perhaps that will make a difference as well.”

“How will we know if it’s been cancelled?” asked Debbie.

“Yeah, and if it is, I want me money back,” said an angry-sounding Mike.

“Don’t worry,” said Louise. “If the course doesn’t continue, you’ll be repaid in full. Every last penny,” she added, pointedly avoiding looking at Mike. “You may get a letter through the post before Tuesday telling you it’s cancelled, but if you don’t just turn up as usual and assume the class is going ahead. Hopefully, I’ll see you all next week.”

I walked out of the college in somewhat of a daze, barely aware of anybody else until I heard Trish saying, “Well, that was different.” I turned and saw she was talking to Debbie.

“Yes, it was. What do you think, Ethan?”

“Oh, I suppose I’m a little disappointed now. I wasn’t sure about it all at first, but once the class got going after coffee I was really beginning to enjoy it. I was looking forward to the discussions over the next few weeks, but now that’s all been put in doubt.”

“Do you know anybody else who could come?” asked Trish to both of us, but we both shook our heads. “No, me neither,” she added. “I don’t know about the other three, so let’s hope Louise can come up with someone else.”

“Yes, let’s,” I added. “It might be good if a few younger ones came — perhaps then Mike and Emma might not feel out on a limb. Or even somebody in their thirties, so we’ve a variety of ages and experiences.”

“I know what you mean,” said Debbie. “I suppose it must be quite difficult for them when everybody else is a little bit older.” A little bit? I thought, but I didn’t say anything. “I quite like Emma, but I’m not too sure about Mike. But it’s the first night, so I’m trying not to be too critical. The point is, we need everybody we can get if the course is going to run, and it’s important that it does, so we’ll have to just cross our fingers and hope for the best.”

I nodded, knowing she was right. It was nice to know that Debbie was as keen as I was to keep the group going. We said our goodnights and I walked slowly back home, pondering on an interesting first night.

***

I had barely stepped through the front door when the phone rang. As I answered I heard Julie’s babbling tones coming down the line.

“Well, did you go to class?”

“Yes, I went.”

“And?”

“And it was good. But this might be the only time.”

“Dad! You mustn’t give up that easily.”

“Hold on a second. The course might not run next week as only a few enrolled on it. If they don’t get the numbers, it’ll probably be cancelled.”

“I told you to go for a more popular one.”

“This was the one that interested me. Anyway, there’s a chance it’ll still run.”

“And what about the other students? Are they nice?”

“Oh, a couple seem all right.”

“And would those couple perhaps be women around your age?”

“I suppose they are. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Dad! Look, I’ve got to go now, but let me know how it goes. And how you get on with your classmates. Remember, play nicely with them. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Jules,” I said with a smile, and I put the phone down.

Chapter Two

Week 2 — Manchester — Poisoning

Tuesday 27th September 2011

The next week passed remarkably slowly. Every morning, I’d wait for the post to arrive, breathing a sigh of relief when there was nothing about cancelling the course in the mail. I pottered around my small room, willing the days to pass. Ever since the divorce, I had been living in a small rented flat in Fairhaven. It was quite a nice area, but I only had my own bedsit and a kitchen in the sprawling Victorian building, sharing the bathroom with the other tenants, and I never felt that I could call it my home. Sad, really, that this was all I had to show after a lifetime at work.

The two other tenants were both males in their thirties. They were out at work all day and weren’t ones for socialising, even if I had wanted to spend my evenings with people from a different generation with different sets of values. Consequently, the course took on an even greater importance, and when Tuesday came and there was still no word from the Education Department I began to hope that all would work out after all.

In truth, it was the company that was the attraction rather than the course itself. The latter seemed as if it was going to be interesting enough, so it was fair to say that I was looking forward to the subject matter, but I had thought a lot about the other class members, particularly Debbie and Trish, over the last week. I hadn’t mentioned them to Julie, of course; I didn’t confide everything during the conversations with my daughter.

Trish had introduced herself as ‘happily divorced’. Debbie had told us she had ‘left her husband’. That didn’t mean, of course, that they weren’t in settled relationships now, but at least there was the possibility that they were in a similar position to me. Were they to be involved with somebody else, then that would be a different matter. After what my wife had put me through, I could never even contemplate splitting up anybody else’s relationship.

I found myself attracted to the two women in completely different ways. Trish appeared, I suppose, to be the ‘safe’ choice. She dressed attractively yet sensibly, exuding the air of a smart, successful businesswoman who was happy with her lot in life. I had thought at first that her persona didn’t fully equate with her position as a sandwich maker, but that was being condescending on my part. Even if it was ‘only’ sandwiches, it was her own business, and she had set it up and made a success of it. She had also initiated the conversations at break time, and seemed prepared to take charge and make decisions. She showed no lack of confidence or sense of unease. I also figured that her self-confidence would make her the stronger of the two. It might be good for me to have somebody like her in my life.

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.”

“Yes, Debbie, you’re correct. But then, if he had, we wouldn’t have anything to talk about tonight, would we?”

“Stupid man,” muttered Mike. “Now we’re suffering a hundred years later because of him.”

Again, Louise refused to rise to the bait, continuing instead with her tale. “After this, the investigation increased in intensity, and the police concentrated entirely on Alfred. Nobody even thought to question Eve Rhodes, even though she, too, was present at Enid’s death. Even Alfred failed to think of involving her, probably because he never thought he’d be found guilty. By the time it was evident that he was going to be charged, several months had passed, Eve had left the mill and nobody knew where she had gone to.

“The case went to trial eventually, with the prosecution claiming that Alfred had been adding small amounts of arsenic to Enid’s meals over a period of several weeks until the concentrated levels in her bloodstream reached the fatal level. The jury seemed to be influenced in this by the fact that Enid had changed her diet in recent weeks, adding rice to most meals — rice was known to contain higher levels of arsenic than other foodstuffs. The prosecutor claimed that made it easy for Alfred to add small levels of arsenic and just hope it would be assumed to be the natural level in the rice if anybody analysed the cause of death.

“In his defence, Alfred denied initiating the change to her diet, but was unable to offer a suggestion as to why she had so suddenly altered her eating habits. When pressed on the matter, Alfred said it must have been something to do with somebody at work, but neither the mill-owner nor Enid’s colleagues had any knowledge of this. The prosecution claimed that this was proof that Alfred was trying to deflect suspicion onto somebody else, and this proved to be the final nail in Alfred’s metaphorical coffin.

“Alfred was found guilty of murder and was hanged at Strangeways on March twenty-fifth 1912 — and as we were talking about Crippen before, the hangman, Rochdale’s John Ellis, was the same man who executed Crippen in 1910, and he was also an assistant to Henry Pierrepoint, first of the dynasty of executioners.”

Louise stopped and waited for a response. I picked up the detailed sheets and began skimming through them, more to avoid eye contact with Louise and a possibly difficult question than to glean any more facts. Then a thought struck me.

“So this Eve Rhodes,” I began, “I mean, how come they couldn’t trace her? If she was the only other person present when Enid died, surely it would have been important to find her.”

“So you’d think,” replied Louise, “but remember, this was 1911, and initially there wasn’t any thought of foul play. But, even so, once it became a murder investigation, you would think that they would have made greater efforts to find her. And that is the real point of all of this.” She looked at me and smiled, and I suddenly felt glad that I had been the one to ask the question.

“I don’t understand,” said Gail, and Trish nodded in agreement. “What is the real point of it all?”

“Let me explain,” said Louise. “Alfred had a brother, Ernest, who campaigned unsuccessfully to get the death sentence quashed, and he looked everywhere for Eve. Digging far deeper than the police ever did, he trawled through records and managed to discover that she had come over from Canada — otherwise we wouldn’t even have known that about her. He eventually traced Eve’s parents, Mr and Mrs Haborham, who lived in Montreal. They had no more idea where Eve was than anybody else, but Ernest did manage to find out some interesting details concerning their daughter.

“She had married a man called Anthony Rhodes in 1908 — a lovely man, according to the Haborhams — but the marriage hadn’t worked out. Eve walked out on her husband and baby son a year or two later, leaving Anthony Rhodes distraught and the Haborhams threatening to disown their daughter. This all happened just before the Crippen arrest actually, in the first half of 1910. Not wanted back at her parents’ home, and not prepared to return to her husband and child, Eve seems to have disappeared from Montreal altogether; her parents told Ernest that they never heard another word about her whereabouts.

“Ernest refused to give up, though, and eventually found Eve’s name on a passenger manifest for a sailing from Quebec to England — she travelled on the SS Laurentic, the same ship that was used to intercept Crippen earlier in the year. Perhaps she had heard all about the Crippen case and had decided to travel to England to follow in his footsteps. Nothing was ever proven, of course, but I think there is enough in Ernest’s findings to at least doubt the guilt of Alfred Rodgers and raise questions as to the involvement of Eve Rhodes in the murder.”

Louise stopped and began to collect her papers. “Is that it?” asked an incredulous Mike. “You mean I’ve sat here and listened to your theory on why a murderer shouldn’t have been executed but somebody else should have been? And without a shred of evidence? What a waste of time!”

“There is more to this, much more,” said Louise, “but there isn’t time to go into all of that now. Read the factsheets I handed out, and, as the course progresses, I’m sure it will all become clear. Remember, I’ve been researching this for a long time. I wouldn’t expect you to understand everything in one short session.”

Mike clearly wasn’t interested in debating this further. He picked up his belongings and walked out of the classroom without a word to any of us; Emma trailed in his wake like a faithful lapdog. The remaining five of us looked at each other before executing a group shrug of the shoulders, and we all tidied away in readiness for leaving.

I walked out alongside Gail and Trish, with Debbie following just behind us. “That was interesting,” said Gail. “Do you think that woman did kill Enid or was it her husband after all?”

“It’s impossible to say on that evidence,” said Trish. “Doubtless Louise will have some more to tell us next week, or there might be more details in the handout.”

“I didn’t notice anything specifically in the papers,” I interjected, “although I didn’t have time to read them in full. But I agree, we don’t have enough information at the moment. We’ll have to wait and see what Louise has to say next week.” I turned and addressed Debbie. “What do you think about it all? You’ve been very quiet.”

“I know. Sorry. I suppose I’ve just been considering what I’ve heard, taking it all in. I don’t really have an opinion yet.”

“Well, I for one can’t wait for next week,” I said as I bade farewell to the other three and walked slowly home.

I rang Julie as soon as I arrived back. “You’ll be happy to hear that the course is going to run, so that’s my Tuesday nights sorted for the next few weeks. Now it’s just the other six nights I’ve to worry about.”

“Dad! Honestly, one minute I’m having to fight to get you out of your flat at all, the next it sounds like it’s going to be a job to keep you in at night! So what about the others on the course? Have you made any friends yet?”

“Not the way I think you mean, but, yes, we seem to get on quite well. Changing the subject, you’ll never guess what the topic tonight was.”

“You’re right, I won’t. I don’t do history, Dad.”

“I suppose it was history, but not the way I’d expected it to be. The teacher devoted nearly all tonight to talking about a murder that took place a hundred years ago. It was almost as if I’d enrolled on a criminology course after all.”

“That seems a bit odd for a history class. I thought you were there to learn about Lancashire in olden days.”

“So did I, but I’m not complaining. Besides, it did take place in Lancashire, so it did give us an insight into how life was in the county at that time.”

“And was there anything special about the murder? Is it a well-known case?”

“No, not at all. In fact, on the surface it seemed extremely ordinary, but the teacher seems to think that there might have been a miscarriage of justice all those years ago. I suppose that’s one reason why we looked into it, but it did paint a very vivid picture of early-twentieth-century Manchester.”

“Manchester? But that’s not in Lan—”

“Don’t start, Jules. We had enough of that earlier tonight.”

“You’ve lost me, Dad.”

“Ignore me, love. Anyway, as I was saying, I found it both illuminating and thought-provoking.”

“Ah, I can see you’ll be getting your deerstalker hat out later and studying the evidence.”

“Ha ha. You know I only bought that so we could play games when you and Gary were little. Besides, I know nothing about the case other than what was presented tonight. It’s the teacher who thinks the wrong person might have been executed, but I haven’t heard any pressing evidence to support that conclusion.”

“Whether you have or haven’t, from what you said it sounds like you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Yes, I am. I’m glad I enrolled.”

“Huh! Take the credit, that’s right. Don’t forget I was the one who persuaded you to do it.”

“Yes, but when I told you what course I’d enrolled on, you also said I’d be the only one on it, remember?”

“Okay, you win.”

“Enough about me. How are things with you and Dave? I’m still waiting for that call to say I’m going to be a grandad.”

“And you’ll have to wait a bit longer. There’s plenty of time for a family once I’m more established in my job.”

“I know. I understand your desire to progress up the ladder. Like I said, carry on as you are doing and you’ll soon get that promotion. How is your presentation coming along? Are you still having to work late most nights?”

We chatted for a few more minutes before saying our goodbyes. As I readied myself for bed I had to concede that Julie had been right to badger me into going on this course. This was becoming the most interesting thing I’d done in an age.

Chapter Three

Mike — Monday 3rd October 2011

He put the phone down and smirked. That had told them. It would serve them all right if the entire thing was cancelled. Who did they think they were, treating him like that? He had rights, and he knew it. Without him and Emma, the whole thing would have floundered anyway.

Then he stopped for a moment and thought. Perhaps there was more to be gained from this than he’d considered? There were some rich pickings to be had if he played his cards right. He had listened while those old fools had told everybody their life history; she, in particular, was almost falling over herself to show how large her bank balance was.

He made his decision. He deserved some of that wealth, and he knew how to get it. Emma had already defied him once, telling him she wasn’t going to quit the course whatever he said. Perhaps he’d let her continue with it after all. She would be pliable now, and he could force her to ingratiate herself with her. He couldn’t do it, of course; he wouldn’t lower himself. But she had no say in the matter.

His smirk became a large grin as he began to count the riches that would soon be coming his way. Enrolling on this course wasn’t turning out to be a bad idea after all.

Chapter Four

Week 3 — Ormskirk — Bludgeoning

Tuesday 4th October 2011

I thought about Debbie and Trish constantly over the next week. I also had plenty of time to think about the course itself. I had read the handout from cover to cover, and, although it didn’t shed any more light onto the question of who really killed Enid Rodgers, it intensified my keenness to find out more. I was tempted to go to the reference library and see what details they had about the murder, but I resisted the urge; I felt that I would get more enjoyment by listening to Louise as she revealed the answer.

I arrived early, with only Debbie there before me. As the clock ticked towards seven first Gail and then Trish arrived, but there was no sign of either Mike or Emma. Louise walked in at just after seven and sat on the edge of the front desk. “I’ve had a phone call this week — or rather the department has had a phone call — complaining about this course.”

The four of us looked at each other blankly.

“No, it wasn’t from any of you. It was from Mike, no doubt backed by Emma. Anyway, the end result is that they are no longer in this class.”

I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. Not really wanting to hear the answer, I asked the question anyway: “Does this mean the course is cancelled due to insufficient numbers?”

“Of course not.” Louise laughed. “They’ve paid for the course — well, she paid the full amount, he only paid the reduced rate — but I’d already made the department aware of his rudeness, and they backed me to the hilt. If he hadn’t decided to quit, I think he might have been asked to leave anyway, although I suppose in that case the class might have had to close. Anyway, that didn’t happen, so let’s crack on. I think the five of us are going to get on just fine together.”

No sooner had Louise finished speaking than the door opened, and in walked Emma. We all looked at her, agape, but she either ignored us or didn’t seem to notice as she sat down and took out her notepad.

“I thought you had decided to leave the course,” said Louise, the note of challenge evident in her voice.

Emma’s response came as a surprise to all of us. “I didn’t, Louise. I know he rang in to complain, but that was nothing to do with me. He said I had to drop out as well, and that’s when I finally decided to stand up for myself.” As she spoke she brought her hand up to her face, then, as if she’d realised what she’d done, she quickly lowered it again. I looked at her eyes, and they were red and puffy underneath the make-up that was attempting to mask the discolouration. Had she been crying? “So here I am…if that’s okay?”

I wondered if I’d been wrong in my assessment of her. For the first time, I saw a chink in the armour that she had erected around herself; behind it was a small, lonely girl, and I began to sympathise with her. Emma saw me looking at her and she scowled. Almost as soon as it had appeared her vulnerable appearance had left her, and I wondered if I’d been mistaken. But I didn’t think I had been; those few seconds had been enough to show me that Emma was human after all.

Louise stroked her chin as if deep in thought. After a bare moment’s hesitation, she asked the question that I’m sure was on everybody’s mind. “And what about Mike? Is he likely to turn up as well?”

“I wouldn’t think so, no.” She hesitated for a second, then continued. “I haven’t seen him since he made that call, and I don’t care if I never see him again.”

Louise still appeared to be considering matters, and an icy silence covered the room. Finally, she broke it by saying, “All right, then, Emma. Let’s make this a fresh start. Welcome back. I’m sure the group feels the same.”

“Yes,” we all replied, babbling and talking over each other in our relief that the moment of tension had passed. I’d almost forgotten that just a few moments earlier I had been feeling happy at the prospect of not seeing either of them again.

Louise opened her briefcase and pulled out some more sets of A4 handouts. As she gave one to each of us, I took a look, expecting to read more about the Enid Rodgers case, but this set of papers was headed Len Phillips, 1922.

“Aren’t we continuing with last week’s case?” I asked. “We still don’t really know what happened.” Gail and Trish said similar things while Debbie read the sheets she’d been given. Emma glanced at them briefly before looking up to catch Louise’s response.

“No,” she answered, “that one is finished with now. I want to move on to talk about something that is, on the surface, completely different.”

“But what about the first case?” asked Trish. “Do you know who really did it?”

“No, all I have is what you saw last week. As I said, I want to discuss a different case this week.”

“And does this one have a solution or will we be left in the lurch again?” asked Gail.

“You’ll have to wait and see. I assure you, it will all make perfect sense by the end of the course — or, at least, it should do. And, just maybe, you might be able to help me fill in a few gaps along the way. Like I said before, although it might not appear so now, I hope that by the end of the course we’ll be in a position to make a life-saving decision. Now, are we ready to start? Debbie? You haven’t said much tonight.”

“No, I haven’t. I’ve been thinking. But now you’ve asked, I do have one question. Are we always going to be talking about murders?” I thought I detected a note of fear in her voice. Did she find the topic too gruesome to even talk about?

“Why yes, each week I plan to discuss a different murder that occurred in the county. Didn’t I make that clear?”

“No,” I said, noting the discomfort on Debbie’s face. “You’ve not been that specific until now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It must have been with all the problems dealing with those two…er, with Mike. It slipped my mind. There isn’t a problem, is there?”

“Not with me,” said Trish. “I found last week fascinating. I’m just a little disappointed that we’re not continuing with that theme to a conclusion.”

I nodded my assent, but Debbie didn’t look certain. “I don’t want to sound like Mike,” she said, “but I thought local history would be about more than just murders. I wanted to find out as much as I could about the county during the last hundred years.”

“But you will, Debbie,” replied Louise. “Each case we cover will be from a different period of time and a different location, which — I hope — will help build up a more comprehensive picture of Lancashire through to the new millennium.”

Debbie didn’t look convinced, but it was obvious that Louise wasn’t going to change her lesson plan. Besides, Gail, Trish and I all seemed to relish the thought of another juicy tale to get involved with, so she was outnumbered four to one; Emma hadn’t said anything, so I wasn’t aware of her feelings on the matter. Whenever I looked at her, she seemed to continually glance across at Gail, before just as quickly looking away again.

“Okay, then, let’s begin, shall we? This week’s unexplained death took place in Ormskirk on Friday March twenty-fourth 1922.”

“Another Friday murder, then,” quipped Trish. “Must be somebody who had a really bad week at work!”

“It is a Friday, but I assure you that not every case occurs on a Friday. Anyway, back to Ormskirk. The victim was Len Phillips, aged sixty-two. There is no doubt whatsoever that this was a murder, as he was viciously bludgeoned by a heavy object, most likely a hammer. What makes it strange, though, is that Len was a churchwarden at the Ormskirk Parish Church of St Peter and St Paul. Nobody had a single bad word to say against him, either before or after his death.

“He was found lying in a pool of blood on the morning of March twenty-fourth, probably only a half-hour or so after it had happened. It was the church organist, a Miss Georgina Hastings, who discovered the body — she was a sixty-year-old spinster and you can imagine what a traumatic experience that would have been for her.

“It seems that it took some considerable time before Miss Hastings had recovered enough to be able to answer the police’s questions. She had been to visit the church to remove the old flowers, as there was a wedding booked for the following morning — there was nothing unusual about that, as she had taken that role on for much of the previous couple of years. Ever since Len had been warden, in fact, as if she had a fondness for him.”

“So are you saying she was the murderer?” asked Debbie, who now appeared to be fully interested in the case.

“No, not for a second, Debbie. Miss Hastings was a very frail lady, and certainly wouldn’t have had the strength necessary to inflict such a series of wounds.”

“So does that mean it had to be a man?” asked Trish.

“That seemed the most likely interpretation of events, although a fit woman would surely have been able to wield the hammer in a manner in which the fatal blows could have been delivered. But a man seems the most likely culprit judging by the nature of the crime. But remember, not everything is always how it seems to be.”

“Then are we to take it that a man was convicted yet you think it was a woman? Similar to last time?” I asked.

“Well, the strange thing is, nobody was ever convicted of this crime, male or female, and as far as I am aware it remains an unsolved murder.”

“So where exactly are we going with this?” asked Debbie. “I thought the reasoning behind these sessions was to look at miscarriages of justice rather than unsolved crimes.”

“A crime can remain unsolved and still be a miscarriage of justice,” answered Louise. “A man or woman doesn’t have to be convicted to be judged guilty in the eyes of the public.”

“It looks like we’re getting ahead of ourselves a little,” I said. “Perhaps we should allow Louise to finish telling us the tale before we start to ask questions.”

“I don’t mind the interruptions,” said Louise. “In fact I welcome them, for it shows that I have engaged your interest. But in this case, I think Ethan is correct, and if I tell you about the other people involved it might make things a little clearer. There are, in fact, three other people to talk about. First, there is the Reverend Jeremy Greenhalgh, vicar of the parish. Then there is his curate, Godfrey Wimbush, and finally there is the other churchwarden, Bea Ashmere.

“Although nobody had a bad word to say about Len Phillips, the same couldn’t be said about the Reverend Greenhalgh. He was disliked by many in the parish, especially as they thought he was too harsh in his treatment of his curate and the wardens. Indeed, Bea Ashmere had only been in post for a few months as the previous incumbent had finally tired of the reverend’s bullying and left for pastures new.

“The curate had put up with the bad-tempered reverend for more than a dozen years, but it was undoubtedly Len Phillips who suffered most from his anger as he became ever more popular with the congregation. Miss Ashmere, too, was the target of many of his criticisms, as he was distinctly old-school and didn’t believe that women had any role in the running of a church. Indeed, it wasn’t until after the Second World War that women were generally accepted as churchwardens, and nobody really knew why Miss Ashmere had been chosen in the first place, given the reverend’s supposed dislike of women officials. She wasn’t the first woman to have that role, though — for example, in 1916, a Miss Mary Hogg became the first woman churchwarden of St Paul’s Church in St Leonards, Sussex.

“The role of churchwarden was to maintain peace and order in the church and to assist the clergy in their work of ministry. And that is what Len Phillips did; perhaps too well as far as Reverend Greenhalgh was concerned.”

“So you seem to be saying that the reverend was guilty. Why wasn’t he convicted, then?” asked Trish.

“That’s the thing. He couldn’t have been guilty, for at the time of the murder he was actually visiting that other St Paul’s church in Sussex. That was indisputable, but it didn’t prevent the tongues wagging amongst the locals, and mud sticks, whether it has any right to or not. Some would say it was his own fault, and if he hadn’t been such a mean-spirited person, then nobody would ever have thought him capable of such a wicked act.”

“So if it couldn’t have been him, then who was it?” I asked, forgetting that I’d been the one who suggested we let Louise finish her tale before questioning her.

“That’s where the police gave up,” she answered. “It seems that once they had concluded that the reverend was innocent, they lost the will to continue the investigation as it didn’t seem that anybody else could have done it.”

“But you think differently, don’t you?” said Gail.

“Yes, I do. And I think the police would have thought so too if they had continued the investigation. After all, there were only two other likely suspects: the curate and the second churchwarden. If they had taken the time to investigate the matter fully, I’m convinced they would have found the murderer, and — who knows? — perhaps saved other lives in the process.”

“Do you mean to say the killer struck again?” asked Emma, joining in for the first time.

“I can’t say that for certain, but surely it’s possible. It really depends if the brutal act was premeditated, or if perhaps the killer struck out blindly in panic for some reason. If it were the former, then I would expect the killer to go on and kill again. Anyway, let’s look a little more into the curate, Godfrey Wimbush, and the second churchwarden, Bea Ashmere.

“More is known about the curate than the churchwarden, simply because he had been at the church for several years. Now I’ve pieced this information together after quite a lot of research, but, when you are investigating something that happened more than eighty years ago, it isn’t possible to be totally certain that the facts are accurate. However, from what I’ve found, it appears that Wimbush had a drink problem, and he used to take money from the collecting plates in order to fund his excesses. So it is always possible that Phillips discovered what Wimbush was doing, challenged him over it, and Wimbush struck out with the first object he grabbed hold of and killed Phillips. From what I have been able to find out, Wimbush left his role in the church after the death of Len Phillips, but he doesn’t appear in any other records that I could find.

“So, as I said, it’s a possibility that Wimbush was the murderer, and if the scenario I suggested happened, then I don’t think it was a premeditated act. If it happened like that.”

“I take it you don’t think it was like that,” I suggested.

“No, I don’t. And for one reason — the brutality of the murder, where Len Phillips was, by all accounts, barely recognisable when he was found. He must have been hit repeatedly and venomously; if Wimbush had done it, under the circumstances I just described, then he would most likely have delivered a single blow.”

“But you’re making assumptions,” said Debbie. “Wimbush was a drunk and a thief…that’s what you said, I think…so he was already a criminal. You’ve already said you couldn’t find much out about him following the murder, so how do you know he didn’t sink further into debauchery and crime?”

“You’re right, of course. That could have happened. It’s just that I don’t think so. No, I’m more interested in the Ashmere woman. You see, although I could find out snippets concerning Wimbush, there is nothing about Bea Ashmere anywhere.”

“Didn’t you say, though,” interrupted Trish, “that she hadn’t been working at the church for more than a few months, whereas Wimbush had been there for years? Naturally, you’d expect to find out more about Wimbush.”

“That is correct, but I’ve checked the census records, gone through registry entries, and I couldn’t find a thing about Bea anywhere.”

“You’re making an assumption, though, aren’t you?” said Gail. “First, if she had only recently moved into the area, you wouldn’t find her records in the local parish register. Second, was she married? And if so, where did the marriage occur? Should you be searching the register and the census looking for her maiden name? There are so many unknowns, especially — as you said — when you are trying to investigate something that happened almost ninety years ago.”

“You’re right, I suppose, but I have this instinct that there’s something more. But I think that’s enough for the moment. Let’s go and have a coffee and we’ll talk about this in more detail afterwards.”

***

We spent the coffee break and the remainder of the class discussing the various characters and analysing the proven facts — as well as those that were just assumed. It was evident that Louise was convinced that Bea Ashmere was the guilty party, and nothing we said could make her change her opinion. I found it slightly frustrating, but also quite exhilarating to have such an intellectual debate, and I was saddened when Louise said it was nine o’clock and time for us to go. No sooner had she spoken than Emma had packed her things away and was out of the classroom, not even pausing to say goodbye before she left.

As the rest of us were leaving we chatted about the evening’s events, with Trish and Debbie engrossed in one conversation while Gail and I exchanged ideas. It was Trish who made the suggestion: “I don’t know about you three, but I’m not ready for home just yet. All these ideas are racing round my mind, and I could do with relaxing a little before going back. Does anybody else fancy going for a quiet drink and chat?”

“I’m up for that,” I answered, perhaps a little too eagerly.

“Me too,” said Debbie. “After all, there’s nobody at home waiting for me, so the company would be nice.”

We all looked at Gail. “My husband is expecting me. He’s flying to Stockholm first thing in the morning — it’s his work, you see — and there’s a lot to do.”

“We won’t be out long,” said Trish. “Surely you can spare a half-hour. Besides, I thought you said he wasn’t going off anywhere while the course was on?”

“Oh, he wasn’t supposed to, but these things happen when you’re a high-flying executive. He’s only away for a few days this time, else I’d have gone with him.”

“Whereabouts do you live?” I asked.

Gail looked a little perplexed, before answering, “I hope you don’t think I’m being awkward, but I never tell anybody my address. We live in a very exclusive area, and if somebody innocently let it slip that we were away, well, I’m sure you know what I mean. There are a lot of envious people in this world.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said. “I was only going to suggest that if you didn’t want to join us because you had a long way to travel home afterwards, I could always go and get my car and give you a lift.”

“Oh, I see, Ethan. Well, thank you, but there’s really no need for that. But I do appreciate the offer.”

“He’s very gentlemanly,” said Debbie. “He even offered to carry my bag for me.”

“Why didn’t you let him, then?” asked Trish. “What’s the good of a man if you don’t take advantage of him?”

“I know, but, like I said before, I’m kind of attached to it and I don’t feel comfortable if anybody else carries it.”

“Fair enough. Okay, then,” said Trish, looking at Gail, “are you going to join us for a drink?”

Eventually, Gail agreed to come with us; I think she was a little worried about missing out on some of the chat, and that was what finally swung it for her.

“Good,” said Debbie, “but just one rule, eh? I’m like you, Trish, with all these gory details running round my head, so let’s agree — no talk about the class or the cases. We’ll just have a quiet evening getting to know each other. Okay?”

We all agreed, although I was a tad disappointed as I really wanted to discuss what we had just heard; in particular I wanted to know what the others thought about Louise exhibiting almost obsessional tendencies, as if she was determined to solve the case. But I was happy enough to go along, and when we entered the lounge bar of the local pub I went to get the drinks.

“Just a small sherry for me,” said Gail. “I mustn’t stay out too late.”

The three women found a table in the corner, and I carried over the tray containing the drinks — Gail’s sherry, two glasses of red for Debbie and Trish and a pint of lager for myself. There were half a dozen other drinkers in the bar, which I supposed would be fairly normal for a Tuesday evening, and it afforded us the chance to have a nice conversation without having to shout to make ourselves heard. I took a mouthful of the lager and emitted a hum of satisfaction. “I needed that,” I said, rather unnecessarily.

“So what are we going to talk about?” asked Gail. “I mean, if we aren’t going to discuss the class at all.”

“Why don’t you tell us about your husband’s trip?” suggested Trish. “After all, it seems like it’s the most interesting thing that is happening around here at the moment.”

“Oh, it isn’t that interesting,” she replied. “In fact, it becomes a bit tedious after a while, always having a suitcase packed in readiness for the next journey.”

“So how often is he away?” I asked.

“He’s away most weeks, although usually he’s just at Head Office in London. But once a month he’ll fly to Chicago to meet the other international organisation heads, and every now and then he flies to Stockholm for a European summit meeting. I always go with him to Chicago, as he’s usually there for a week, but I don’t go with him on all of the European visits. To tell you the truth, I get a little fed up of all the travelling. An airport is an airport after all, and after a while they all look the same. Sometimes I can’t even tell if I’m at O’Hare or Landvetter. They’re the main airports in Chicago and Stockholm,” she added in case we needed clarification. I was about to say something, but Debbie was already talking.

“I thought you said he had no long trips lined up while the class was on, but if he goes to Chicago every month, that has to clash surely?”

“No, as it turns out, not at all. We were away in the first week of September, and we fly out to O’Hare again on the twenty-first of this month — I won’t miss a class because it’s half-term. We come home at the end of October and fly back again in early December.”

“What do you do when you’re out there? I mean, doesn’t it get a bit boring while he’s at work?” asked Trish.

“Oh, no, not at all. Chicago and Stockholm are beautiful cities. I love shopping in Gamla Stan when in Stockholm — that means ‘the old town’ — and when we’re in Chicago, we try and get to the baseball whenever we can.”

“You like baseball?” I asked. “I’ve never been to a game, but I used to watch it when it was on Channel 5.”

“Oh, yes, we both love it, but my husband is a Cubs fan while I follow the Red Sox. It’s a pity that neither of them are in the World Series this year. Who do you follow?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I got it wrong. I thought you meant basketball.”

“Oh, no, baseball is America’s national sport, not basketball. And there’s nothing like going to Cellular Field to watch the Sox. I suppose my husband feels the same when he’s down at Wrigley Field watching the Cubs.”

“It must be something to be at one of their games. You must be a real fan,” I said, before taking a deep swig of my lager. “Can I get you all another drink?” I asked.

“We can’t have you getting the drinks in all the time,” said Trish. “Unlike the class, this is 2011, not 1911.”

“Hey, we said we weren’t going to mention the class,” said Debbie.

“I’d get the drinks,” said Gail, standing and picking her coat up, “but I really do have to go. I’ll see you all next week.”

After Gail had left, Trish turned to me. “Fancy a man getting mixed up about sport, not knowing the difference between baseball and basketball. Even I know that,” she said, mockingly.

“As it happens,” I replied, “I do know a lot about baseball. More than a lot, in fact. I might not have attended a game live, but I used to stay up until four a.m. on a Monday morning watching the televised games, even when I had work the next day. I know more than Gail does, it appears.”

“Why? What do you mean?” asked Debbie.

“I don’t want to be unkind, but she made a few basic errors. She knew where they play but she got the name of her team wrong. It’s the White Sox in Chicago. The Red Sox are from Boston. It’s as if she’s swotted up on the subject but doesn’t know it intimately. Similar with the airports she was talking about. If she was flying to Stockholm, she’d most likely use Arlanda. There are several other airports that serve the city, but Landvetter isn’t one of them — that’s the main airport for Gothenburg.

“Okay,” said Trish, “let’s get this right. You’re saying that Gail has been getting basic facts mixed up, over both airports and sport. But why would she do that?”

“I don’t know, I really don’t.”

“No,” said Debbie, “neither do I. Perhaps she just got confused?”

“Or maybe she’s just trying too hard to impress us and tell us what she thought we wanted to hear?” added Trish.

“Could be,” I said. “If so, though, she didn’t say what I wanted to hear. I was interested in learning something about Gail herself, but I don’t think I know any more about her now than I did before. I don’t mean I wanted to know her complete life story, but a potted history would have been nice.”

“Come to think of it, Gail’s story did sound a little like she was reciting some facts that she’d learnt parrot-fashion. You know, a bit like used to happen at school, when you’d have to recite, say, the periodical table. I knew the symbols and elements, but that didn’t mean I knew anything about chemistry.”

“Yes, but, unlike school, it sounds as if Gail learnt the wrong facts,” said Debbie.

As it was getting late we decided to call it a night. “Next week, though,” said Trish as we were leaving, “let’s all of us tell our ‘potted histories’, as that’s clearly what Ethan wants to hear.”

“I will — on condition that Ethan tells us his tale as well,” insisted Debbie.

“If I must,” I added. “It will make for a long night, especially if we can persuade Gail and Emma to join us as well.”

We said our goodnights and went our separate ways home, with the prevailing thought in my head being that I had a date — of sorts — after class next week.

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