by Sam Hurcom
‘Who’s Bob?’ I asked the General.
‘Have you not met him? Gosh, seems strange, he looks to puff out his chest and march about the place like he was the Lord,’ the General quipped. ‘Once it annoyed me, but now it’s quite amusing. Bit of a fool, mind.’
‘Cummings, you’re talking about Robert Cummings?’
The General leapt a little in his chair. ‘You have met him then.’
‘This is madness,’ Harriet muttered. She was not wrong in that.
‘Why would Robert – Bob – be annoyed at you meeting Betsan?’
The General barked with laughter and weakly hit a hand across his leg.
‘Well, the money of course! It was going to be his when I died, my not having any children supposedly. But Betsan changed all that. I wanted her to have it, my estate and everything.’ He laughed and kept rambling. I leapt from my chair and began charging out of the room.
‘I knew nothing of this, Inspector,’ Harriet yelled after me. ‘For God’s sake, I knew nothing!’
I was thundering down the short corridor. When I came to the landing I yelled down for Cummings. There came no reply, and I noticed the front door was wide open. I near fell down the stairs, glanced in one or two of the rooms but made no sight of the man. He had fled the manor, disappeared into the furore of the storm.
23
A Fall from Grace – June 23rd, 1904
I ran as fast as I could across the common, now waterlogged and soft underfoot. I didn’t skirt the large, muddy puddles that had formed, splashing through them with little care. As I came upon Cummings’ estate, I could tell in an instant that he wasn’t there. Nonetheless, I scrambled over a high wall to gain access to his rear garden and make certain. The entire house seemed dark and vacant.
I headed then to the town hall, speeding down Britway Road. A river of rainwater flowed with me, interweaving and rippling over the compacted chalk and dirt. A few lights were plain to see in some of the homes I passed, and midway down the road I skirted a slender, elderly man who I had interviewed that very morn. He goaded me with some sarcastic remark that I barely noticed.
I ran faster in sight of the hall, and when I came upon it, near smashed the doors away from their hinges. I panted and wretched, finding Vaughn and Geraint in the exact spot I had left them. Both men were smoking, though Geraint seemed as emotional as he had been when last I saw him.
Before Vaughn could speak I rushed over to him.
‘Cummings. Cummings has run. He … he—’ I had to catch my breath and bent over double. I managed to wheeze out my words. ‘He has a motive, a grave motive. I think he saw to Betsan’s death.’
I breathed in heavily, dark spots forming at the edges of my eyes. When I hauled myself upright, I looked down at Geraint, still slouched upon the floor.
‘You have to stay here. You’re still the last known man to see her alive.’
‘He, Mr Cummings. He d-did not kill her, Inspector,’ Vaughn said to me quietly.
I turned to him and placed a hand upon his shoulder.
‘Whatever loyalties you have towards him do not matter now. You must help me apprehend him. Where would he go – he is not at his house.’
‘I-I-I know he didn’t k-kill her, Inspector.’
I shook my head at the young man, my frustration bubbling for we were wasting time.
‘I lied to you this morning when I said I had no m-more secrets.’ Vaughn stepped away from me a little. ‘I s-swear I know not of any motive you speak, but I know he did not kill Betsan.’
I lunged at him as I regained some of my stamina. I pinned him to the wall, to which Geraint leapt up and split us both apart. As I cursed and bellowed at Vaughn, he tried to speak over me.
‘I’ll help you find him,’ he yelled desperately, his whole body shaking. ‘I know where he may have got to. When w-we find him, I’ll confess all to you, as will he.’
I barged Geraint away with strength I did not know I possessed. Grabbing Vaughn again I grappled him away from the wall and shoved him towards the door.
‘Where would he go? Show me!’
‘H-h-he has a s-small stable further along the common road. If he’s trying to run, he’ll fetch his h-horse.’
I pushed Vaughn again and together we left the hall, moving as fast as we could through the wind and rain to return up the hill. My lungs screamed, my legs weak, barely able to carry me. I had to stop at one point, to which Vaughn showed real concern. I batted him away, for I wanted nothing from him then. I pushed on stubbornly, and after a few minutes I was outside Cummings’ house once more.
There I could not go any further and halted in the middle of the road.
‘Where … where is his stable?’
Vaughn pointed further ahead. ‘About half a mile. The road goes a little f-f-further than that. It would be far too – too treacherous for him to ride that way.’
I couldn’t reply, breathing too heavily. The wind seemed to suck the air from my lungs and I moved myself over to the front wall of Cummings’ garden to lean against it. I stayed there for over a minute, before gingerly continuing along.
‘He had a start on me,’ I said hoarsely. ‘He could have already fled the village, even in this frightful storm.’
Just then, as if planned, a purple streak of light cracked the sky asunder. Once, twice, then thrice; the flashes of lightning brightened the world for an instant. I spoke over the cacophony of thunder.
‘We must be certain he has left the stable!’ I said bitterly.
We soldiered onward, along the length of the common for another few hundred yards. Blighted by the elements, it seemed the longest few hundred yards I had ever walked.
Vaughn stopped me then, pulling me close to speak clearly in my ear. ‘This is no mere storm, Inspector. D’you really th-think he’s tried to flee?’
I carried on without replying. Vaughn scampered after me, though we walked no more than four or five paces. Above the wind and rain, I began to hear a faint rhythm, quickly growing louder. I withdrew my Enfield from my coat pocket, for then I knew the approaching sound was a horse charging in our direction. Sure enough, a shape began to emerge in the haze.
‘You cannot mean to shoot him, Inspector?’ Vaughn sounded desperate.
‘If he does not halt on the road.’ I moved a little to my right and pulled back the hammer of my gun.
Cummings fast approached, and I could see him now clearly, clad in riding boots and gloves, clinging to the reins and jockeying his horse along the road. His brown stallion moved at pace, and whether he saw me or Vaughn, it didn’t seem to matter.
Vaughn foolishly began waving his arms. I, in turn, raised my gun.
‘Stop! For God’s sake, s-stop!’ The young man seemed genuinely terrified.
As he came within fifty yards of us, it was clear that Cummings had no intention of slowing. He yipped the horse onwards, whipping at its hind with his riding crop. It seems so clichéd in moments such as these, but all things then seemed to slow around me. Vaughn began to run to his left out of the road; I altered my stance and took hold of the Enfield with both hands. Thick drops beat across the barrel as I trained my sights and made ready to fire.
Lightning crashed, striking against a tree on the opposite side of the common. I flinched, as did Vaughn. Within ten yards of us, Cummings’ horse skid to a halt. It brayed as he tried to bring it to heel, before it reared frantically and threw him off the saddle. He fell dreadfully, landing on his back with his left knee and shin buckling under him. He cried out in anguish, though was very lucky, for his horse beat and trampled the floor beside him, before bolting back in the direction of the stable.
Vaughn ran to Cummings’ side; I walked over slowly, my gun still in hand. The man was screaming on the floor, trying to shift and move his leg. It was clearly broken, and he clutched his knee as he writhed, mud cov
ering much of him.
‘It’s broken,’ he yelled, clenching his eyes shut. ‘My bloody leg is broken.’
I had no sympathies. ‘It is the least of your worries. Get him up, Vaughn.’
Cummings protested, as did Vaughn. I had no patience for either of their complaints and knelt down, threading an arm beneath Cummings and pulling him upward. He screamed at me, though I did not pause, moving the man awkwardly and with no care. Seeing this, Vaughn took Cummings’ other arm and wrapped it around his shoulder. As we began to move, Cummings was made to hobble with great difficulty, flinching and moaning with every step. He yelled all manner of insults my way, though it only made me move him quicker.
‘We’re going to the hall,’ I said coolly. ‘You’re both going to tell me everything you know.’
Geraint had gone. I cursed under my breath. By now it was approaching evening and the day was taking a toll on me. We shuffled over to a few seats and there I dropped Cummings clumsily into one. He screamed out again for his useless leg jolted against the floor.
‘Bastard!’ He pushed Vaughn away and returned his attention to his leg. My gun was still in hand, and in quite a rash move, I aimed it straight at Cummings. Vaughn stammered uncontrollably.
‘Sit down!’ I shouted, at which he did, his hands raised a little.
I moved about then, before replacing my gun for my notebook and pencil. I still had duties, murders to get to the bottom of. Nothing would be resolved if I let my anger take hold of me.
‘Start from the beginning, five years ago.’
Cummings scoffed. ‘I told you of all this. The lad here did too, no doubt.’
‘You lie. You say your reasons for not alerting the Constabulary were in the interests of the village, that you carried out an enquiry, that you did your duty. That is weak reasoning if any, I know there was something else to it. Tell me.’
Cummings only shook his head, avoiding eye contact with me.
‘You are my top suspect for the murder of Betsan Tilny. You’ve colluded with another to have her killed so you could be the beneficiary of the General’s estate. Tell me that is not true.’
‘It is not,’ Cummings replied savagely, his face gnarled and twisted. ‘I had nothing to do with the girl’s murder.’
‘Then what of the children’s murders five years ago. What part did you have in that?’
‘I had nothing to do with it,’ he snapped.
‘You made a hurried investigation back then to sweep everything under the carpet, ensured no one from the surrounding Constabularies was informed and now claim to have had no part in these murders – so tell me the truth!’
Cummings started to speak but stopped himself. He was shaking, his jaw clamped shut. Rainwater and sweat dripped down from his forehead to his jowls. With his dreadful blue coat open, I could see a fine three-piece suit, in the style he wore at all times, torn and tatty now – like every other façade he tried to maintain.
‘Fine,’ I said crisply, thrusting my hand in my pocket and gripping my gun. ‘Until you are willing to divulge what you are so clearly holding back you will be considered the leading suspect.’ I looked at Vaughn. ‘I’ll assume for now that you are his accomplice in all this, so you’ll both need to be held until I can send for the Glamorgan Constabulary.’
Vaughn rose a little in his chair, reaching out to me, pleading. I pulled the gun quickly and barked at him to sit back down. Cummings jolted in his seat and cried out once more.
‘You’re both under arrest for the murder of Betsan Tilny. Throw me your shackles.’ I was aiming the gun at Vaughn then, who only quivered in his seat.
‘Just tell him,’ Vaughn near whispered.
Cummings remained silent for a moment. He turned to Vaughn beside him for some sort of support. The young man could only look down at the floor.
‘When the children were killed,’ Cummings began slowly, ‘I feared … I feared an investigation might pry into some … business dealings I and others had undertaken.’ He inadvertently moved his leg and groaned.
‘Business dealings,’ I said. ‘What kind of business dealings?’
He was rubbing his knee. ‘The kind that are not strictly legal.’
I shook my head in total disbelief. I’d like to say I was surprised, but nothing of this village and its secrets seemed to shock me anymore. The man had let a killer walk free to save his own skin – in my eyes then he was as culpable as the murderer.
Cummings explained in brief his illicit dealings. Fraudulent transactions in the purchase of property. Bribery to Glamorgan and Cardiff officials in the pursuit of land ownership. Tax evasion. The opening of multiple fraudulent lines of credit. He was the owner of the Mill Road properties: the new red-bricked houses of which I’d taken note on my first day (they had been built with no due diligence in respect of the land, and were overvalued prior to any sales). Embezzlement of funds entrusted to him by General James and the local council. On and on it went for the list in his serpentine business stretched back many years.
‘Who else was involved?’ I interrupted sharply at one point. By now I had put my gun away again and was scribbling details down in my notebook.
‘It was mostly my doing—’
‘But who else was involved?’ I asked with greater force.
Cummings clenched his fist and spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Myself and a man called Phillip Shaw started the whole thing, really, when the General first began showing signs of his illness.’
I thought of the dithering Mrs Shaw, the woman who had nearly told me of the previous murders. She’d said her husband was formerly Treasurer of the Village council. This I confirmed with Cummings.
‘He passed away three years ago,’ Cummings muttered bitterly.
‘His wife told me,’ I replied.
He shook his head despondently. ‘She never could keep her mouth shut.’
‘Who else?’
Cummings fidgeted and wriggled. ‘Some other members of the council, Patterson, the shopkeeper.’
I recalled my conversation with Mrs Patterson, the shopkeeper’s wife, that previous day.
‘His wife holds you in high esteem – does she have something to do with all this as well?’
Cummings looked at me viciously then, stabbing a finger out towards me.
‘Margaret has nothing to do with this!’
I had clearly struck a nerve. ‘Are you and Margaret close?’
‘Whether we are or not is of no concern to you,’ Cummings snarled defensively. ‘This has nothing to do with anything.’
‘I’ll assume that is a yes. Is your good relationship one of public knowledge?’ I took some pleasure in seeing the scorn wash over Cummings’ face. He clearly wished to yell all manner of foulness at me then.
‘Who else?’ I growled.
‘The lad here’s father,’ Cummings pronounced, nudging Vaughn next to him. Vaughn was still staring down at the floor, though he closed his eyes at the mention of his father.
‘He wasn’t much involved before his death,’ Cummings continued. ‘Johnathon Miller more recently, when he needed help with the farm.’
I thought back to my conversation with Miller that previous morn.
Mr Cummings has been very good in assisting with getting the work completed. He’s a good man, the Councillor.
A dreadful idea struck me then.
‘Did Miller really find the girl’s body that morning?’
‘Of course he did,’ Cummings blurted.
‘Yet he, and all those involved in your illicit business, sought to keep the previous murders quiet and withhold as much information from me as possible.’
To that Cummings said nothing. Things were beginning to make sense to me.
‘That’s a good handful of people in this village who were involved, many I have spoken to. It was in their interes
t to conceal the previous murders – they didn’t want to draw attention to their financial crimes. Even then though they likely needed some convincing to stay quiet.’
Cummings moved to stand, as if forgetting his leg was broken. ‘Not everything I, or anyone else, did was for profit, Inspector,’ he groaned. ‘And what good would come from dragging up the past, destroying the work we have done for this village, just for you to draw a blank, to make the same conclusions we did all those years ago?’
‘Did you try to hamper any of Vaughn’s enquiry five years ago?’ I asked plainly, turning then to Vaughn. ‘Did you actually carry out one or has that all been lies as well?’
‘We were horrified,’ Cummings cried with volume. ‘I helped Vaughn here carry out whatever investigation he saw fit – there were no suspects then and it was well within reason that the murders were committed by someone unknown. Anyone can pass through those woodlands, anyone!’
Vaughn was tapping his leg nervously. His lips were pursed together tightly – he was panicking, the stress and reality of it all now impressing upon him. I doubted then he would be able to speak.
‘So your business – what you feared the Constabulary may unearth – played no part in your failure to alert them to the murders?’
Cummings rubbed his eyes. ‘It was a concern, of course, but I was satisfied enough by Vaughn’s conclusion.’ I laughed bitterly at that. ‘What point was there,’ Cummings continued, ‘of kicking up all manner of fuss when we had determined what had happened to those poor children?’
‘Ha! You determined nothing. You merely wanted to hold onto your ill-gotten gains. What then of Betsan’s murder? You’ve made it quite plain that you had no desire for my being here, wanted me gone as soon as I arrived.’ At this, Cummings turned away from me. ‘The two of you have stuck steadfast to the preposterous notion that two separate incidences of murder were carried out by some random, unknown assailant. Unless of course it was the bloody spirit, the Calon Farw demon!’
I was being facetious, though talk of spirits made me think of Betsan, and of her ring. It jarred with me, struck me so that I stopped dead for a moment where I stood. In quieter tones I continued.