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Fitz nodded. “Your man is very definitely working hard to pattern his killings after these. I’m simply not sure why.
“Police were called. They established that the body in the doorway was one John Critchley, the son of a JP Critchley of Batley Hall, called James. He was wearing only a pair of trousers and a hat. In the doorway were a coat and a vest, which they believed belonged to the man. His hands were crossed over his chest, and his wrists were tied together with a piece of cord, as were his feet.”
“As was Barry Morrison,” replied Gardener.
“Was it murder?” Reilly asked.
“The police who investigated the scene of the discovery found no evidence that he’d been murdered,” continued Fitz. “It does appear, however, that there were some circumstances which led them to believe that he had been the victim of brutal violence.”
“Were there any other similarities to Barry Morrison?”
“I haven’t found anything specific on the cause of death, but Critchley – like Morrison – also had a swollen head, neck, and chest. But there were relatively few marks on Critchley’s body, which led the police to believe the swelling was due to internal problems rather than any violence.”
Fitz added, “I realize it’s not an exact copy of your case, but the police at the Batley Police station also believed he was murdered somewhere else and dumped on the doorstep. In Critchley’s pockets they found an empty purse, a knife, some letters, a number of other papers, and a photograph of Mary Wrigglesworth. There are enough coincidences for me, gentlemen, to start taking this seriously.”
Gardener helped himself to a second coffee. “What about the other two, Fisher and Sargent?”
“In September 1864 the public was allowed to watch the first and last double execution at Armley Gaol. James Sargisson and Joseph Myers had each been found guilty of murder. Myers was a saw-grinder from Sheffield, a heavy drinker with an evil temper who had killed his wife.
“James Sargisson was twenty years old and had no police record until he attacked a man called John Cooper in April 1864. Cooper was twenty-seven and worked as a gardener. On his way home to his parents’ house in Stone near Rotherham, he stopped off at the pub and sank four glasses of ale. He left around ten o’clock, and the records state that Sargisson, along with his friends, noticed the watch Cooper was wearing and the money he had. Cooper left the pub and was eventually attacked. He suffered repeated blows from a hedge stake. The following morning, he was found by the roadside near to Roche Abbey.”
“With exactly the same injuries as Alan Sargent?” Reilly asked.
“As near as,” said Fitz. “Fractured skull, broken jaw. His eyes were black, and he was covered in bruises where he’d tried to defend himself. The hedge stake had been left lying next to him.”
“The pattern changed slightly,” said Gardener, “but only out of necessity.”
“Yes,” said Fitz. “Geographically speaking, your man wasn’t going to Rotherham to commit a crime, nor was he going to take his victim there.”
“Must have been very convenient for our man to have his intended victim living so close to Kirkstall Abbey,” said Gardener.
“Coincidence?” Reilly asked.
“I didn’t think we believed in them,” said Gardener.
“You two should be on television,” said Fitz.
“We have been,” said Reilly. “A few times.”
“What about Frank Fisher’s murder?” Gardener asked.
“It’s a copy of a suicide,” said Fitz.
“Which was how it was made to look to us,” said Reilly.
“Pretty much down to the last details,” replied Fitz. “James Foreman lived on Sussex Street on Richmond Hill in Leeds.”
Gardener shook his head. “It’s unbelievable.”
Fitz continued. “He committed suicide in 1856. He was a fifty-seven-year-old woodcarver and a widower. The similarities in history between him and Fisher are also quite startling. He was a secretary to a friendly society, and a few weeks before his suicide, he became concerned that his accounts for the society were incorrect.”
“He was an accountant?” Gardener asked.
“Seems so. Anyway, due to accounting problems, he sank into a deep depression and cut his own throat.”
“It’s uncanny,” said Reilly. “But surely our killer couldn’t know this.”
“Well, even if he did,” replied Gardener, “how could he possibly twist people’s lives so that it all happened exactly as it had in the past?”
