Murder at the Bayswater Bicycle Club

by Linda Stratmann

  Frances frowned as she read that name, and then began to search back through her copies of the Bayswater Chronicle of 1881, which were stored in a neat pile on her dressing table. Since starting to keep her weekly issues for reference, she had accumulated some two years’ supply, a measure that had saved her many a visit to the newspaper offices on Westbourne Grove. Her growing library also included street directories, maps and timetables. She might have been anxious that the collection would eventually outgrow the space allocated in her bedroom, but since she owned few personal luxuries, that eventuality was still some way in the future.

  Recalling that the trial of the young bicyclist’s killer had taken place at the Old Bailey during last year’s autumn session, she located the report without difficulty. Sam Linnett, aged forty-eight, a pig farmer of Old Oak Common Lane, East Acton, had been tried for the murder of twenty-seven-year-old Morton Vance, commercial clerk and secretary of the Bayswater Bicycle Club, who had been found battered to death the previous August.

  Linnett, said the prosecution, was notorious for making unprovoked attacks on passing bicyclists, by cutting at them with a horsewhip or throwing stones. He had twice been arrested and appeared before the magistrates at Hammersmith Police Court, who had fined him for these offences. He was also in the habit of cutting staves from the hedgerows and leaving them lying in the path near the entrance to his farm, although there were no witnesses to him doing so. A horse, the learned gentleman pointed out for the benefit of the non-bicycling members of the jury, might pick its way neatly over such an obstruction, but a high-wheeler could be so unsettled, bouncing off the rough wood on its hard rubber tyres, that it would propel its rider violently to the ground, resulting in serious injury or even death. The court would hear from members of the Bayswater club who would testify that they had learned to be wary of Sam Linnett. Since the lane was the principal way between East Acton and the Uxbridge Road it was hard to avoid using it altogether. The club members had very sensibly placed a white-painted marker post as a warning to all riders that the farm entrance, which when approached from the north was partly concealed by a curve in the lane and overhanging hedgerows, was imminent. When wheelmen saw the marker post they knew to slow down and look out for potential danger, hoping not to encounter the irate pig-man. Some actually dismounted and walked past the farm entrance, wheeling their machines along, so as to be less vulnerable to attack, and any staves found lying in the road were picked up and thrown into the ditch.

  That fatal afternoon, Morton Vance had been riding south down Old Oak Common Lane when he had collided with Sam Linnett’s high-sided livestock cart, which had been turning into the farmyard, creating an impassable barrier across the width of the narrow roadway. The accident, if that was what it was, had resulted in broken bones; however, according to the prosecution, Sam Linnett had then descended from his cart, picked up a discarded stave and murdered Morton Vance with two hard blows to the skull, after which he had calmly proceeded about his business as if nothing had happened.

  The jurymen, wrote the Chronicle’s reporter, had looked on the accused with ill-concealed disgust. Sam Linnett had entered the dock in his stained workaday clothes, which in the warm, crowded and airless court exuded an eyewatering and stomach-turning reminder of his occupation. What appeared to be a permanent scowl was fixed to his face, although, said the Chronicle, it could not be determined whether this was evidence of how he felt about his unenviable position, or his everyday expression, revealing the monstrous character of the man.

  Sam Linnett’s defence counsel did his best for his unprepossessing client, explaining that there were mitigating circumstances that had caused the farmer’s antagonism to bicyclists. A year earlier Linnett’s only son Jack, then aged sixteen, had been driving the pig cart when his horse had shied and bolted on encountering a passing bicycle. The cart had overturned, and crushed the boy’s leg. Although he had not lost the limb, he was now crippled for life. The defence gave a moving description of the fond father’s overwhelming grief at this tragedy, asserting that since then Linnett had become excited to the point of insanity, and possibly even beyond, at the mere sight of a bicycle. It was this misfortune that had led him to make the attacks with whip and stones, and lay the staves, all of which offences he freely admitted. Linnett had given up laying staves after being warned about it by the police, and he had not made any attacks after being fined. He still shook his fist when he saw a bicyclist go past, but that was wholly understandable and could hardly be counted as a crime. This did not mean that Linnett had killed Morton Vance, an act he strongly denied. He had no quarrel with Vance as a man. The rider who had caused young Jack’s calamity was not even a member of the Bayswater Bicycle Club. It was well known that he was a Mr Babbit of the Oakwood Bicycle Club, who, although he was not obliged to do so, had actually admitted some liability and paid the farmer a sum of money in compensation.

  Sam Linnett, said the defence, made no secret of the fact that on the day of the fatality Morton Vance had collided with his cart; however, the accident had been entirely Vance’s fault. His client utterly denied that he had deliberately used his cart to obstruct the roadway. The young bicyclist, he stated, had been riding down the lane at a dangerous speed and would have been able to stop and avoid a collision had he been proceeding at a sensible pace. The young man was lying in the road, very much alive, when Linnett had last seen him. He had no duty of care over Vance, and therefore had no compunction in leaving him where he lay, assuming that his associates would shortly come and assist him. The speed of the bicycle had led him to believe that Vance was racing, and that another man would arrive very soon. He didn’t see another bicycle but then there was a slight bend in the road and some overhanging hedgerows just north of the farm, which would have hidden an approaching bicycle from his view.

  Yes, Sam Linnett had abandoned a seriously injured man lying in the road, that much he admitted, but he had not killed Morton Vance. Another person, possibly a fellow bicyclist, must have arrived soon afterwards and committed the murder. The jurymen, according to the Chronicle, had narrowed their eyes sceptically at this unconvincing explanation.

  There were several witnesses for the prosecution. Members of the bicycle club testified describing previous acts of violence towards bicyclists by Sam Linnett. Morton Vance, they said, was an excellent young man, a hardworking club secretary, who had not had a falling out with anyone. Particularly distressed in the witness box was fellow bicyclist Henry Ross-Fielder, who had discovered the body of his friend. There had been no doubt in his mind that Vance had already breathed his last and was beyond any help. He had known better than to appeal to the Linnetts for assistance in removing the body and had ridden to East Acton as fast as he could to get a carrier.

  A surgeon, a Mr Jepson of Acton Town, who had examined the body, confirmed that Vance had died from blows to the head inflicted by some hard object. The collision with the cart would not have caused those injuries or been fatal. A stave found lying in the roadway was stained with blood, and hair resembling Vance’s was sticking to it. He had no doubt that this was the murder weapon. He had also examined Linnett’s pig cart and there were marks on it that looked as if they had been made by a recent collision with another vehicle. The bicycle, which was painted dark blue, was damaged, and he had found flakes of the same coloured paint on the pig cart.

  Jack Linnett was called to give evidence and there were gasps of surprise and sighs of pity for the fine-looking youth who limped to the witness box on a twisted leg. His working clothes were rough but clean and well mended, and he did not bring the odour of the farmyard into the court with him. Many of the onlookers, including the Chronicle’s correspondent, found it hard to believe that this was the true offspring of the surly degenerate in the dock. The young man’s evidence, given quietly and with due respect to the court, was oddly unhelpful to either side. He said that he had not witnessed the accident, but recalled his father bringing the cart home on the day of the murder. Sam
Linnett had mentioned only that a bicyclist had been racing down the lane and collided with the cart, but he had made no further comment, and had simply gone about his work and eaten his dinner as usual.

  Even without the reporter’s embellishments, Frances could imagine how well the pig-man’s defence had been received in court. While the accused deserved some sympathy for his son’s circumstances, and had in all probability acted in the heat of the moment, nevertheless he had a record of assaulting men who had had nothing to do with the accident involving his son and had unashamedly admitted his disgracefully callous behaviour towards a badly injured man.

  The jury had taken several hours to reach a verdict and finally declared Sam Linnett guilty of murder, with a recommendation to mercy. That mercy had been denied, and Sam Linnett had gone to the gallows.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There was one name in the trial record that was familiar to Frances, since she was sure she had seen it in the newspapers quite recently. She looked back through her copies of the Chronicle and found the trial of Robert Coote, unemployed, aged twenty-five. Some two months ago, Coote had been found guilty of aggravated assault causing actual bodily harm in a public place against the Reverend Duncan Ross-Fielder of Holland Park and resisting arrest, resulting in minor injuries to Police Constable Gordon. Although the Christian names differed and the clerical victim of the assault could not therefore have been the same man who found the body of Morton Vance, the unusual surname and the Holland Park location, not far from East Acton, suggested to Frances that the two were related.

  Unusually, Coote had asked for permission to make a statement to the court. On learning of this request, his counsel had asked for time to consult with his client in private, and this had delayed the hearing by several minutes. When counsel and prisoner returned to the courtroom it was apparent from the strained manner of both men that there had been a heated exchange of words. Observers inferred that Coote’s own defence had strongly advised him against making the statement. In the event, the court had denied the request. The nature of the statement remained a mystery, although it was rumoured that the prisoner was intending to make accusations against his victim that could not be substantiated, and counsel must have felt that this would hinder rather than assist his case. For the remainder of the trial, Coote stood silently in the dock, his mouth twitching with the words he wanted to be heard.

  There were several witnesses to the crime. Coote had been seen lurking in the street near to Ross-Fielder’s home for at least an hour before the assault. He had not attempted to beg from anyone else, but on seeing the reverend gentleman he had approached him with urgent demands for money. When this request was refused in the mildest of terms, he had then launched an unprovoked attack. The respected clergyman, aged fifty-three, had been punched, pushed to the ground and kicked violently. Several witnesses had cried out for help, and Constable Gordon, who had come running to the reverend’s aid, had also been assaulted. A second policeman had been required to secure the struggling, abusive prisoner and remove him to the police station.

  Coote, said the prosecution, had never previously met or been employed by Ross-Fielder, although he had recently been annoying him with a spate of barely literate letters asking for money. It was thought that he had made the clergyman a target of his demands because his victim was a man of honour, well known in West London for his service on a number of charitable bodies, and who gave alms by private donation.

  The defence could only say in mitigation that his client was in straitened financial circumstances having lost his employment as a parcel carrier through no fault of his own. He was also distressed by the recent death of his widowed mother. He had come to court alone, and had no friends or family to assist and support him. Coote had freely admitted that he had written to the clergyman asking for money, and on receiving no reply had approached him in the street to beg assistance. When the reverend had instead directed him to an appropriate charity, he had been upset, and had simply lost his temper.

  Had the incident occurred between two drinkers in a beer house, Coote might have been consigned to prison for six months, but violence towards both a clergyman and a policeman were more than the judge could stomach, and with many harsh words he sentenced Coote to eighteen months with hard labour.

  As Frances waited and made her plans, her associates gathered. First to arrive was Sarah, who, once she knew what was proposed, quickly arranged a hearty supper of bread and butter with cold meat, cheese, pickles, hardboiled eggs and tomatoes, and sent the maid out to fetch strawberry tarts. Professor Pounder, who was next, was immediately deputed to bring bottled beer and cordials.

  Cedric Garton arrived in lively form, freshly shaved and cologned, dressed in the newest and most fashionable gentleman’s apparel with a flower in his buttonhole and eagerly enquiring why he had been summoned by Bayswater’s finest detective. Tom and Ratty soon followed. Everyone assembled around the parlour table, piled their plates with food, helped themselves to their chosen beverages, and gazed at Frances expectantly.

  ‘I have been asked to undertake a mission,’ said Frances, nibbling the edge of a crusty slice with care, so as not to interfere with her address, ‘and it is a very simple one, but one which may potentially have some danger attached to it. I have therefore been advised that for safety I should be accompanied by those people I trust most.’ She looked about her and smiled. ‘And here you all are, my dearest friends and associates, those who I know to be brave and clever and honest. My task will be undertaken while spending a delightful day out in East Acton for the annual summer race meeting of the Bayswater Bicycle Club.’

  ‘My word!’ exclaimed Cedric, almost dropping a neatly constructed sandwich of cold chicken. ‘Well that won’t be hard for me, as I am to attend that event myself. I am entered for the two-mile handicap, and the competition for the best turned-out machine. But what is your mission? Are you permitted to reveal the identity of the client?’

  Frances had given a great deal of thought to how much she could reveal. ‘All I am allowed to say is that my task is simply to observe my surroundings and take note of anything that might strike me as unusual. That may seem very simple, but it requires unceasing vigilance, and I am instructed to be very careful to do nothing adventurous that might attract attention.

  ‘Mr Garton, your advice would be extremely valuable. I would like to learn all you know about the club and its members. It would be a very great help if you made a list of the gentlemen’s names with notes of anything you know about them. You can include their friends and family too, if you have any information. But please, and this is very important, you must not ask any questions. If you make special enquiries of your own you might reveal too much in the wrong quarters.’

  Cedric gazed at her enquiringly. ‘And now I am more than a little concerned; not for myself, but for you. What, exactly, are the wrong quarters?’

  ‘That, unfortunately, is the one thing I don’t know, which explains the potential for danger. We can’t tell who our friends and enemies are.’ Apart, she thought, from the mysterious Gideon mentioned by the gentleman with silver hair. ‘We must trust each other, of course, but we trust no one else. So you must assemble that list from memory alone.’

  ‘You are stretching the capacity of my poor brain again,’ sighed Cedric, smoothing his already smooth blond hair, ‘but of course, for you, dear lady, as always I will do my best.’

  ‘So there’ll be dangerous types there?’ asked Sarah, with an anticipatory glint in her eye.

  ‘Possibly.’

  Sarah cracked her knuckles. ‘We can deal with them.’

  Professor Pounder said nothing but he glanced at Sarah, and his expression spoke for him.

  ‘But suspicious persons are not to be approached,’ warned Frances. ‘That rule is for us all. Should there be any hint of actual danger I am under strict instructions to leave at once.’

  Cedric nodded approvingly. ‘We’ll keep you safe, have no fear!’

 
‘That nasty Filleter won’t be there, I hope?’ said Sarah, wrinkling her nose with disgust.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Frances. ‘Even if he could be, and I understand that nowadays he is unable to walk unaided, he is a crude individual and this is a different matter altogether.’

  ‘That filthy fellow would be spotted at once and thrown out of any sporting event,’ declared Cedric. ‘His picture was in all the illustrated papers last autumn, and I for one have made it my business to study his image and look out for him. I can promise you he has not been in Bayswater again, for which we can all be thankful.’

  ‘But he will have agents,’ said Frances, ‘and they will be no better than he.’ She glanced enquiringly at Tom and Ratty, who exchanged looks. Tom shook his head and swallowed a mouthful of cheese and pickle. ‘Nah. We ain’t seen ’im. An’ if ’e’s got men, we ain’t seen ’em, either.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe that any of the club members are involved in crime,’ Cedric continued. ‘They all seem such decent sorts.’

  ‘How many members are there?’

  ‘About a dozen or so I think. We meet up once a week for a club ride, and there are race meetings in clement weather and the most delightful social events in the winter.’

  ‘Tell me about the patron, Sir Hugo Daffin.’

  Cedric wielded a napkin with dexterity. ‘Oh, he’s a splendid fellow, must be sixty-five if he’s a day, but he still rides around the village on his bicycle. We have suggested that he might be better advised to take up the tricycle but he’ll have none of it. It’s thought he must have been on two wheels since the days of the dandy-horse. He lives at Springfield Lodge in East Acton and the club uses his rooms to meet, and he has visiting wheelmen to stay when they are touring. He’s dedicated to improving the lot of bicyclists and is forever patenting new inventions.’