Chapter 5

The Historical Society

Thurstan surveyed St Helens Town Hall and decided he liked the clock tower. He wasn’t a fan of Victorian asymmetrical buildings; they gave him the impression the architect had been repeatedly hijacked with requests for more facilities and had simply accommodated everyone with a series of hastily designed individual extensions. Still, the clock was quite decent and though the building itself wasn’t listed as being of special interest, the two traditionally styled public telephone boxes flanking both sides of the entrance steps were.

He and Gandalph took the stairs to the first floor, following signs for the ‘Historical Society Exhibition in the Assembly Hall’ - those last words brought a sudden rush of school days nostalgia to them both.

A stage occupied the far end, but even so, the hall was quite spacious. Although surprised at the size and thoroughness of the exhibition, Thurstan was more taken aback by the lady at the desk who, with a charming smile, asked for an entrance fee. He turned to Gandalph and, giving a quick incline of his head in her direction, wandered off to peruse the displays.

Photographs and information adorned a throng of green felt-covered boards carefully placed on large easels and, every four or five, there was a similarly decorated table beside which a helpful smiling man or woman, or both, invitingly stood.

Gandalph sidled up to him. “You need this, Boss,” he said, handing over a pink ticket which declared itself as ‘723’. A meaningless serial number adorned the side. Thurstan stuffed it in his pocket, Gandalph tapped his arm. “Don’t lose it because she said there’s a mini raffle every hour.”

Thurstan’s interest was raised. “What’re the prizes?”

Gandalph was looking around, wondering where to start his enquiries first. “What? Oh, it’s just small stuff - a big packet of crisps or a bottle of cola or lemonade or choice of a Pimblett’s pie.”

“What pies have they got?”

“She never said. They’re all good, so I never asked.”

“Well, go and ask her.”

Thurstan was examining the old photos at the Police History section when Gandalph returned. “What kept you?” he said, without turning.

“There was a queue, and I didn’t want to look rude.”

“And?”

“They’ve got a large savoury pork sausage roll, a chunky steak and onion, a meat and potato and a pork pie. The crisps are only beef flavoured. I’m not keen on them.”

“Haven’t they got minced steak and gravy?”

Gandalph shook his head. “No, that went this morning, Boss. Oh, and they’ve only got lemonade left now.”

Thurstan nodded. “Still, worth hanging around for.” He tapped a picture. “See him? Superintendent. 1901 to 1906.”

Gandalph interjected, with a smile. “Did you know him, Boss?”

Thurstan replied, straight-faced, “That’s what I like about you, Stephen - you’re simply hilarious. No, he’s one of the chaps in the photo of Montague Hillingdon I showed you from the local paper’s archives. He’s someone we need to find out more about.”

“Can I be of any assistance?” The short round-faced man who chaperoned the table smiled pleasantly at them before continuing. “I see you’re interested in Edgar Beeson. A bit of an innovator was Edgar; brought the first bicycle patrols to St Helens.”

An enthusiastic man, his middle-class careful, unhurried voice betrayed the hint of a former Lancashire accent.

Thurstan nodded sagely. “Are you ex-Job, by any chance?”

The man beamed. “Ahh, and I assume you’re a policeman. No, I was never in the Force, but I always wished I had been. I’ve several friends at the pub who were in the job. They can tell a tale or two but, of course, you’d know that.”

He hesitated, threw a couple of glances around and conspiratorially said, “I can see you’re wondering how I knew you’re still in the police. Well, I deduced that because of your use of the term Job. Now, you could be retired but your companion looks nothing like you so I’m pretty sure you’re not related and therefore not on a family fun day out, so you must be working. The absence of small rucksacks, however, tells me you’re not members of a door-to-door religious group simply taking a break, so you must both be detectives – suit, shirt and tie. How am I doing?” His smile was one of smug satisfaction.

Thurstan hoped he wasn’t talking to a potential stalker. “Do you have a friend who’s a doctor?”

The man chuckled. “No, but I’ve always been a fan of Sherlock Holmes. Now, what official business brings you here, if I may ask? My name’s Richard by the way. Richard Tadley.” They shook hands.

“Detective Chief Inspector Baddeley. My colleague is...” he looked around, but Gandalph had bimbled off. “Well, never mind. We’re looking into some historical cold cases and I’m now suspecting your knowledge could be very useful.”

He related the bare bones of the widow’s murder, no names, no fine details.

Without more prompting, Tadley replied, “Yes, I recall reading something or perhaps someone told me. It was probably Wilf, over there in the yellow check shirt. He’s a fountain of knowledge on the business and local communities, particularly around the time you’re interested in. I’d go and speak to him before you leave, if I were you. I can, however, tell you about this character though.”

He beckoned Thurstan over to another board and touched a photograph. “Superintendent Ridings; took over from Beeson when he retired. Now, in 1902, he was a newly promoted Detective Inspector, so he would’ve investigated that murder. Came from very humble beginnings and worked his way through the ranks. It took him almost twenty years to make Inspector but four years later he took over as Superintendent, on Beeson’s recommendation. Always struck me as a little bit odd that, but then again, they were both members of the same Lodge by the time Beeson retired.”

Thurstan was intrigued. “How do you know all this? In my experience, the modern-day police are quite poor at keeping records of their own history, sometimes they even forget or ignore some departments existed.”

Tadley gave a chuckle. “Yes, that’s quite right. You’d think they could do so much better. No, most of the stuff we have has been donated by relatives. They find things in dusty attics when a family member dies then don’t know what to do or what to make of it, so they come along to our meetings and give it to us.

“Now,’ he emphasised his point by waggling his forefinger at no one in particular. “Not everything comes with a story, so often we must piece information together from various sources, including other historical societies. That’s why people like Wilf and Harriet come in handy. Harriet’s the lady over there next to the big woman. They’ve got books at home you just can’t get these days.”

He paused, in a moment of musing. “I dare say, you’d probably like to know how I knew Beeson and Ridings were in the same lodge?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Follow me.”

He took Thurstan behind the table and opened a battered old suitcase. “We’ve got things in here we decided not to display for one reason or another and this item was the subject of a discussion, that’s why I know. Now, look at this.”

He handed over what, at first glance, looked to be an old menu, but it was the sort of thing Thurstan was familiar with from his Army days - formal Regimental Dinners which had to be attended. This item announced a Masonic dinner evening in honour of a member moving on, presumably to another Lodge or part of the country. After the itinerary, there was a list of speakers. Both Beeson and Ridings were listed.

They chatted a while longer before another shake of the hands was called for and Thurstan left him with a promise to attend a society meeting, if he needed anything further - every Wednesday, 8 pm, informal dress, venues posted on their site.

Strolling around the exhibits, he found Gandalph, who was halfway through eating a pie. “Where’d you get that?”

“I won it in the raffle, Boss. Meat and potato, lovely.”

“How come I never heard them doing it?”

“You were probably too engrossed with fecking Sherlock Holmes back there. Anyway, I’ve found some things out. I spoke to the bloke in the yellow check shirt. I think he said his name was Wilf. He told me some very interesting stuff.”

“Right, tell me about it in the car. C’mon, you can finish that on the way out.”