by Sam Hurcom
Dedication
For my grandparents:
Beryl, Gordon, Leonard and Susan
Contents
Cover
Dedication
Title Page
Map
A Note to the Reader – November 13th, 1913
1: My Arrival – June 17th, 1904
2: The Scene – June 17th, 1904
3: The General’s House – June 17th, 1904
4: Diary Entry – June 17th, 1904
5: The Road to Michaelston – June 18th, 1904
6: All Saints Church – June 18th, 1904
7: Stepping into Nightmares – June 18th, 1904
8: The Body – June 18th, 1904
9: The Woodland – June 18th, 1904
10: Diary Entry – June 18th, 1904
11: The Mother – June 19th, 1904
12: The Discovery – June 19th, 1904
13: The Grip of Fever
14: Diary Entries – June 20th, 1904
15: Diary Entries – June 21st, 1904
16: The Storm Sets In – June 22nd, 1904
17: The Miller’s Account – June 22nd, 1904
18: A Slip of the Tongue – June 22nd, 1904
19: The Scratching in the Ceiling – June 22nd, 1904
20: One Man’s Grief – June 22nd, 1904
21: An Unknown Engagement – June 23rd, 1904
22: The Truth from General James – June 23rd, 1904
23: A Fall from Grace – June 23rd, 1904
24: At the Bottom of a Glass – June 23rd, 1904
25: The Silent Brother – June 23rd, 1904
26: In Plain Sight – June 23rd, 1904
27: The Finest Act – June 23rd, 1904
28: The Passing of the Storm – June 24th, 1904
Author Biography
Copyright
A Note to the Reader
November 13th, 1913
For years I could not speak of what is written in these pages. It marked the change in my life, the death of the man I once was. Only now, as an ever-deepening fear of what is to come plagues me, do I feel compelled to write of all that I have seen.
The account you are about to read is the only true one. If you wish to corroborate my story, perhaps with any journal of repute from the time, you will find little – if nothing – of what transpired some ten years ago.
So strange was all that happened, many cannot even begin to comprehend it. Yet still I write this.
Believe me or do not – most think me a madman. On cold nights such as this, I often wish I were.
1
My Arrival – June 17th, 1904
I embarked by train on a fine summer morning. The small windows in the first-class carriage were propped open, and as the steamer gained pace, charging through the green pastures and twisting through the rolling landscape with thunderous rapture, a warm breeze, lined with mill dust and soot, ebbed and swirled about me.
It was a Friday; that Tuesday past I had apprehended a killer. The case in Oxford had taken longer than anticipated and had not been without its challenges. But my work had been done, and seeing a guilty man taken into custody rejuvenated me in a manner that no great elixir ever could. After only two short days at my residence in London (during which time I had received a letter asking for my assistance with a murder enquiry in South Wales), I was eager to return to my duties.
Hence my fine mood upon departing from Paddington, greeting the kindly conductor who inspected my ticket as though he were an old friend. Following my connection at Chepstow I must have dozed, however, for no sooner had I set my gaze out southerly, watching with a strange sense of envy as labourers toiled lazily in the fields, I was stirred by the clatter and rattle of the locomotive dropping speed and pulling into the station at Cardiff. It had been little more than an hour and a half, and whilst the day remained fine, the crisp blue sky had dulled substantially.
I alighted at the short platform as a near endless stream of coal transports ran along the mainline back toward London. Many were headed from the valley routes in the north, the deep pits of the Rhondda and Ebbw Vale. Even over the din of freighters, the hustle of clerks and businessmen rushing to and fro across the narrow platform, I heard the tremendous booming and racket of the great docks just out of sight, little more than a mile south from where I stood. Above the grimy rows of terraced houses compacted and sprawling outward towards the dockyards, I made out the black pillars and white clouds of steam, the dragon’s breath of industry, the goliaths that sailed across the Commonwealth from this mighty place. And a mighty place it was, for stood there amidst the chaos of it all, one could not help but feel a little overcome. This was the furnace, the heartbeat, of the greatest Empire in the world.
After descending into the station fully, I enquired about my connection, and made haste towards the furthest track from the mainline. A fine locomotive, with two stumpy carriages in tow, began pulling from the station as I clambered the final few steps to the platform. In calamitous fashion and with the aid of a young station assistant, I bundled onto the second carriage.
It seemed deserted and I saw no real need to park my travel case and camera equipment in the racks. They sat in the aisle, rocking gently, as I caught my breath and the train followed the line, bending out of the station.
I watched the world roll past us through the grubby carriage window as we made our way from the centre of the city. We clattered by ever more lengthy rows of terraced houses, the streets a hive of activity, with women busy at their work and children scampering in droves like packs of rabid dogs. The brickwork, walkways and roads were all darkened and dirtied by smoke and fumes, comparable perhaps only to the streets of Brixton town or the ghettos of Spitalfields (my former home). Beyond the workers’ houses, I saw the dockyards in greater view and fleets of trawlers and cargo vessels hauled at anchor. The world, it seemed, was darkened ever more in that direction.
It would seem apt to explain the details of my journey, and the full nature of my employment. My trade as a photographer had been passed down to me from my father. I enjoyed the work, though even in the capital the money was poor. After my apprenticeship, and several years of unsteady work, an opportunity had been offered to me by the Metropolitan Police. I’m not ashamed to admit that this securing of work was more a case of whom one knows rather than what one knows, for the man who hired me was something of an acquaintance. I take no shame in saying his loose friendship played a vital role in starting my career – too often men let pride get in the way of common sense when it comes to these matters. To turn him down would have been to waste the greatest opportunity ever afforded me.
Forensic photography, as it remains to be called, was something of a fledgling enterprise, a new and specialist field, now incorporated into the wider forensic sciences. Many avoided it, due to the unseemly nature of the work. Though indeed the scenes I saw were ugly (occasionally barbaric), I was vested with one sentiment – there would always be crime, and the need to record it.
Some years passed – I worked at crime scenes throughout the city and I studied in The Yard’s dark rooms, morgues and laboratories. In time I earned quite the reputation, both for my forensic expertise and surprising investigatory skill. Many in the force began to see me as an Inspector (a title I feel I do not deserve) in my own right, capable of not only assisting with enquiries but taking on my own cases. My keen eye for detail when examining crime scenes, and a surprising talent for piecing together evidence, brought many a guilty man and woman before judge and jury.
In recent years, and owing to my rather u
nique skillset, The Yard had relinquished me of many of my in-house forensic duties, holding me on retainer as a specialised investigator, consulting on serious crime cases nationwide, often those of which I was requested. Receiving correspondence at my private residence from police forces and constabularies up and down the country was not uncommon at this time in my life. Travelling to assist with a murder enquiry in a small Welsh village was nothing out of the ordinary.
When we arrived in the village of Dinas Powys, the pearlescent blue heavens had re-emerged fully. I breathed in heavily, letting the scorching sun beat down upon my brow as I alighted and stood upon the platform. It was deserted. I checked my pocket watch as the steamer departed with a short screech of its whistle – I was some forty-five minutes early for my meeting. It didn’t seem to matter and with an air of calm and relaxation (the last time I should ever feel such ease) I made my way out of the station.
Crossing a wide dirt road, I ascended a gentle set of steps, passing a cottage of some antiquity. Its thatched roof was all but destroyed, revealing the twisted, rotten skeleton of oak timbers and exposed chimneys. A faded sign on the wall read ‘Malthouse’, though it seemed the place had been abandoned for some time.
A thin trail wound around the derelict, leading to a few more cottages in far better standing. Stretching above the thatched and slated rooftops, I made out the three spires of a dull grey church, each tipped with simple, unembellished crosses. I guessed then that this trail would lead me to the heart of the hamlet, though I chose not to follow it, instead ascending further up the hillock away from the station, where a wide grass verge spread away and out of sight. I would learn that this was the edge of the village common, and as I carried my heavy cases up and over the verge, I realised just how wide an expanse it was.
All was quite pleasant, if not a little inert. Some twenty yards from where I stood, two women, dressed in none of the high fashions of central London, but smart gowns and neat blouses nonetheless, walked side by side along a visible trodden path in the grass. The shorter of the women was barked and yipped at by a small terrier, tethered to her wrist by a thin length of twisted rope. Further off, some four hundred yards perhaps, a young man with flaxen curls rode a fine pony on a dirt road skirting the common’s northern edge. With each quick step, the pony shot white and cream dust out behind its hooves.
Perhaps my enthusiasm and good mood got the better of me, for I approached the women too keenly, catching the shorter lady’s eye and smiling a little. Innocent as my intentions were, under the circumstances my approach was indelicate. She fell silent and still at the sight of me. With a brief nod of acknowledgement, she pulled with little subtlety on her companion’s arm. The pair sharply turned and walked quickly away from me without even a glance over their shoulders, the miserable terrier yanked and heaved by the neck with ruthless thrusts of its leash.
I watched after them for a moment, only turning my gaze away at the sound of hooves thumping quickly across compacted earth. The young man on his pony was out of sight in a flicker.
Somewhat dumbfounded, I walked further onto the common towards a wooden bench, whereupon I set my cases down gently. There was no one else in sight. I considered the encounter, reminding myself that a young woman in the village had recently been murdered and that people were likely nervous (nay, terrified) of anyone they may not recognise. It seemed foolish of me to have expected open arms and warm greetings.
In spite of my eagerness to head into the village, for time is a pressing matter in serious cases such as these, I decided to wait on the common for the hour of my scheduled meeting. It seemed best not to alarm anyone or draw any greater attention to myself than I was already likely to incur. I removed my heavy coat and realised my copy of the Standard was still folded neatly in the large inside pocket. My copy was something of an inaccuracy. I had found the previous day’s paper unattended on the platform at Paddington. I browsed through an account of a meeting held in Manchester between local business leaders and the adopted Liberal MP Winston Churchill. On the page over, nestled in the far bottom corner, I noticed a short extract reporting the recent case in Oxford:
The perpetrator of several salacious murders in and around the Oxford city area has been thwarted by members of the Oxford City Police, working out of the Blue Boar Street station. The accused has not been named publicly but shall be brought before magistrates in the coming week. The Oxford City Force was assisted in their enquiries by Metropolitan Police Special Investigator Thomas Bexley.
I admit now (with some sense of shame for my arrogance, I might add), that seeing my name in print brought a smile to my face. It was not the first time I had been mentioned in a national newspaper, and I daresay I thought it would not be the last. Idling on such things seems so absurd looking back now.
Forty minutes later, as I began to gather some of my belongings to make my way toward the village proper, I caught sight of a man waving in my direction some two hundred yards from where I sat. With no one around me, I gingerly raised a hand and waved back to him. That spurred him on and he hurried towards me, half jogging over the fine-trimmed grass.
He was barely five feet five, no more than forty but carrying the weight and purple skin tone of a man who drinks too much and eats poorly. His gasping breaths preceded him and a thin veil of sweat shone dully in the blazing sun from his receding hairline to his heavy jowls. He wore a fine suit, better than the ragged three piece I had on that day. His was dark tan, checked and double breasted with a smart red dicky bow resting against his Adam’s apple. He beamed at me and my first impression was that he seemed a friendly type; his greeting was far removed from the earlier reception I had received. I smiled back at him and took a few steps in his direction.
‘I guessed you would wander up here from the station. Most do.’ He gasped out his words as a dog pants in such weather. He needed to take a breath and compose himself but seemed keen to talk more. ‘If you haven’t been here before, it’s easy to head onto the common rather than straight to the village.’ He stretched out a red and sweaty hand. I shook it with vigour, meaning to introduce myself.
‘How was your journey?’ he rasped at me.
‘Fine,’ I stammered, trying to wrench my hand from his sweaty grasp. ‘Lovely, in fact.’
‘Yah,’ he murmured. ‘Such a shame it is under these circumstances.’
I nodded and watched as he pulled a lime green handkerchief from inside his jacket. He rubbed his face and took several gulps of air.
‘Cummings. Robert Cummings, head of the local council.’ He smiled as thick, dark veins throbbed from his temples.
‘Thomas Bexley,’ I replied. He barely seemed to notice. He brazenly stepped past and reached for my luggage case. I moved fast to ensure he didn’t carry my camera equipment; the handle on the bespoke case I’d had made was a little loose and likely to break with too strong a pull.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of arranging your lodgings. I imagined the process would be done by tomorrow.’ He began walking off as he spoke, back in the direction he had appeared from. I moved after him, my camera case in one hand and coat in the other.
‘I’m afraid this will likely take three days, at least.’
He didn’t stop walking but remained silent momentarily. ‘Really, that long eh? Any reason in particular?’
‘No, it is simply not a process we should rush, Mr Cummings.’
He nodded without a word.
Crossing the common, we came to a short, steep incline that descended from the expanse of grass. Here, at the brow of the hill, Cummings pointed to a large detached house of fine design and proudly announced it was his. He explained that I could find him there should ever I need him, though from the manner in which he spoke I suspected he merely wanted to show off the property. As we made our way down the hill Cummings further explained how the village square was only a short distance away down Britway Road. Before I had time to get
a word in, he began babbling about the history of the village. The man barely took time to breathe before rattling on to another subject.
‘How has everyone taken it?’ I asked quickly as Cummings paused between his short, haggard gasps for an instant. I thought of the two women who had near fled at the sight of me upon my arrival. Here again, I reminded myself that this was not the heart of a major city like London or Oxford. This was a tiny hamlet where a murder would have a devastating effect on many. ‘Awful thing under any circumstance.’
Cummings seemed to growl. ‘Dreadful, dreadful thing. It’s come as a surprise to some.’
I was taken aback a little by the man’s rather brazen tone. ‘But not to everyone?’
Cummings shrugged. ‘You may learn a few things about the people of Dinas Powys in your short stay here, Inspector.’
‘I’m not an Inspector.’ It seemed proper to correct Cummings from the outset. In spite of my skillset, I have always felt the title Inspector should be reserved for those who have diligently (often painfully) worked their way through the police force ranks. He stopped in the road and eyed me with an air of confusion.
‘The telegram from the Glamorgan Constabulary seemed to say you were. Chief Inspector Brent advised us that your services would be a necessity here.’
I shook my head a little. Either Cummings or Chief Inspector Brent, whose letter to my residence had been nothing but brief, was misinformed.
‘A misunderstanding, I am sure, one perhaps I should have clarified when I wired back to the Chief Inspector yesterday morning. Understand I’ll be heading up the enquiry now on behalf of the Glamorgan Constabulary – I’ll work to assist the Chief Inspector and his men but answer only to my superiors at Scotland Yard. Brent wrote to me with the instruction to meet with yourself and your local officer, Constable—’
‘Vaughn.’ Cummings beamed. ‘He’s young but has his theory on what happened.’
‘He has a suspect then?’ We were walking again at quite a pace; Cummings heaved and sighed with each speedy stride.