The Death Game

Friday night, 31 October 1919
Thoughts of witches and banshees raced through the young constable’s mind as he ran through the dark cemetery in the direction of the screams.

His lantern swung wildly, splashing light indiscriminately in front of him, illuminating trees, bushes and gravestones. The unearthly sound of screaming grew louder and he dreaded what he was going to find.

He swore softly under his breath, cursing his partner for not being with him. It had not seemed to matter when he had agreed to cover the beat on his own to give Harry time to go off with one of the Overgate girls. But now he bitterly regretted it.

A movement, over to his left, was caught briefly in the wavering beam and he turned, raising his lamp higher. The light flickered over a macabre tableau. The girl was crouched over something on the flat top of a gravestone. She pushed herself upwards, stopped screaming, and stared towards the light with glazed eyes. Her white gown was saturated with something dark. The same dark liquid dribbled down the knife she held and, in the silence, he could hear the drips plop onto the body spreadeagled on the gravestone.

He took two steps backwards, fumbled for his whistle, raised it to his lips with shaking fingers, and blasted on it for all he was worth.

**********

Detective Inspector Brewster should have been home several hours ago, but the riot at the Scouringburn had turned into a pitched battle between the mob and the police and he hadn’t been able to leave the scene until the bobbies had the crowd under control. So when he heard the police whistle he was tempted to ignore it and leave the beat bobbies to respond. But when he heard it again, four short blasts, the emergency signal, he shrugged off his tiredness and turned in the direction of the sound.

The screaming, and the bobbing lights of several police lanterns, guided him to the middle of the cemetery. By the time he got there the girl’s screams had subsided and one of the constables was approaching her.

‘It’s all right, lass,’ the constable said soothingly, reaching out a hand for the knife.

The girl whimpered and drew back.

The constable hesitated in his advance. ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said.

Brewster held his breath and sidled nearer to the girl. Her attention was on the constable and he might be able to disarm her if she swung the knife at him.

The girl’s head turned, drawn to his movement.

Brewster froze.

The constable took another step towards her. ‘Nobody’s going to hurt you, lass.’ He advanced some more.

Brewster took the opportunity to circle behind the girl, but he did not want to rush her because the constable was now too close. One false move and she could easily plunge the knife into him.

‘You don’t want that knife,’ the constable murmured. ‘You might hurt yourself with it.’

The girl whimpered and turned towards the body on the slab. She reached out a hand and touched it. Tears slid down her cheeks and her shoulders shook.

‘Give it to me, lass, before someone else gets hurt.’

Brewster held his breath and tensed his muscles, ready to pounce.

But the constable reached out and took the knife from her unresisting hand.

Brewster exhaled. The danger was past and now there was only the clearing up to do.

He strode forward. ‘Good work, Ramsay,’ he said. ‘It took a lot of courage to take that knife away from her.’ He turned to the others. ‘Henderson, Dixon, take her down to the police station and see she’s locked up. After that go and get Davvy to bring his barrow. Mathers, you go off and get the police doctor while Dempster and Mitchell stand guard.’

Brewster sat on an adjacent gravestone. What a bloody night this had been, first the riot and now this. He would be lucky if he saw his bed at all.

It was more than an hour before the doctor arrived. ‘You didn’t need me to tell you she’s dead,’ he grumbled after giving the body a cursory examination.

Brewster shrugged and nodded to Davvy to bring the coffin-shaped box on wheels over. ‘She’s ready for the barrow to take her to the morgue,’ he said.

****************

It was morning before everything was done and Brewster was able to go the female cell block to interview the prisoner. Annie Baxter, the turnkey, accompanied him.

The girl lay prostrate on the mattress-covered bench. But as soon as she saw Brewster, she drew her knees up under her chin and started to wail.

‘It’s no use, sir,’ Annie said. ‘She’s been like this since they brought her in. When she’s alone she’s so quiet you’d think she was dead, but as soon as someone approaches her, she starts screaming.’

‘I’ll leave it for now,’ Brewster said. He sighed wearily as he retraced his steps to the charge room. He needed to go home and get some sleep.

‘Any luck with the prisoner, sir?’ The desk sergeant looked up.

Brewster shook his head.

‘D’you want my Marge to come in and question her? She’s good with the female prisoners and she’s done it often enough before.’

‘No, Hamish. The Chief Constable has arranged for one of these new-fangled policewomen from London to be our statement taker. She can do it when she starts work next week.’

The sergeant snorted. ‘I suppose policemen’s wives aren’t good enough to take the statements anymore.’

Brewster shrugged. ‘Who are we to question why?’

‘I was on duty when she was interviewed,’ Hamish frowned. ‘I never seen nothing like it in my life before. All dressed up in some kind of outlandish uniform, and real snippy she was.’ He shook his head at the recollection. ‘Just you wait until you see her,’ he said ominously.