Murder at the Bayswater Bicycle Club

by Linda Stratmann

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘Where is George Farrow?’ asked Frances.

  ‘All the family have been given permission to depart,’ said Grove. ‘At least, I have not seen any of them for a while.’ He glanced over at the entrance to the cricket ground where two constables, having discovered a ball, were amusing themselves with an impromptu game of football. ‘I’ll ask the constables if they have seen him. If they haven’t he might still have slipped away during some of the distractions that have occurred. But I’ll send Ratty with a message to the right quarters to ensure that young Mr Farrow will find himself being interviewed very soon.’

  ‘I think it might have been Farrow who killed Miss Hicks,’ said Frances. ‘She was hoping to marry him, and he was trying to pass her on to Jack. If she was spending time with him she might have noticed something that suggested he was engaged in some underhand activity. She might not have known what it was, but she would have been aware it was something he didn’t want revealed. And she knew from local gossip that a wife can’t give evidence against her husband in a court of law. That was the bargain she wanted to make. Marriage to ensure her silence.’

  ‘I feel you may be right. Poor young woman. If she had seen the true value of Jack Linnett she would be alive now.’

  At that moment, to their surprise, Jack emerged from the pavilion, looking a little dazed. They hurried over to him. ‘The Inspector says I’m free to go,’ he said. ‘There was a gentleman saw me watching the professionals’ race and he told the Inspector I didn’t move from the spot. So they know I couldn’t have done it, now.’ He was relieved but it was without any kind of pleasure at the situation.

  ‘You should go home and rest,’ said Cedric.

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve things to do first. To be truthful I … I want to wait here awhile. I know it’s cowardly, but I’m not sure I can face Mr and Mrs Hicks. I know I didn’t do anything wrong but there’s folks in East Acton will look at me in a strange way, as if they think that because of what my father did I am the same. And now with this, even if they catch the man and hang him, there’ll still be people saying, “Oh Jack Linnett’s father was a murderer, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Maybe he did it after all.”’

  ‘There was no real evidence against your father,’ said Frances. ‘And although we know what he thought of bicyclists that’s no reason to murder someone. He had no quarrel with Morton Vance.’

  Jack looked surprised. ‘Is that really what you think, Miss?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I have read the inquest and the committal proceedings and the trial report.’

  He gave an awkward shuffle on his twisted foot. ‘Maybe they don’t tell all the story.’

  ‘Oh? Is there more?’

  ‘There might be. These trials, when people stand up and are asked questions. Sometimes I think they aren’t asked the right questions. And even if they are, then they don’t tell all the truth. Not lying exactly, but just leaving things out and sometimes the things they don’t say are as important as what they do.’

  ‘Tell me, Jack, did your father have a quarrel with Morton Vance? Did anyone else? Was there someone Vance was afraid of?’

  He shook his head. ‘It wasn’t like that. I know my father did and said some bad things after the accident to my leg. He always hated Mr Babbit for it, so much so that Mr Babbit always rode somewhere else after that. He didn’t dare come near father. Then father went before the magistrates and was fined for putting things in the road and hitting out at the bicycling men, and after that, for a bit, all he used to do was grumble. And I thought we might have some peace at last. But then —’

  Frances waited.

  ‘If I tell you, you’ll think it’s nothing.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  Jack looked about him to see if anyone else was in earshot, but they were far from being overheard.

  ‘It was a few days before my father killed Mr Vance,’ he said. ‘We had taken the cart out, going down to the Vale, and one of the bicyclists went past us – I don’t know which one – and the horse got all jittery and shied. No harm done in the end, but it was a bad moment, and it was a lot like the accident – the one where my leg was hurt. All of a sudden it felt like it had happened only the other day, not the year before. And father got real angry and some hard words were said and the bicyclist he made a sign with his hand, which wasn’t called for. And father said that they were a menace to hardworking folk, and he swore by all that was holy and one or two things that weren’t, which I won’t repeat, that if he ever got the chance, he would do for one of them.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’ asked Frances.

  ‘I thought it was just said in the heat of the moment. I didn’t think he’d do it, but – he did. That day, the day of the murder, he’d taken the cart out, and he came back in, and told me that he’d just killed a bicyclist, stove his head in. Said it served him right, and he’d been wanting to do it for a long time, and, now he’d done it, he felt better for it. There was blood splashed all over his hands, and he washed it off at the pump. I wanted to go out to the lane and see for myself, see if the man could be saved, but father told me I mustn’t have anything to do with it. Then he said that when he was arrested I had to be careful what I said. I mustn’t say anything about him saying he wanted to kill a bicyclist. He was going to tell the police it was all done out of hot temper, and he didn’t remember it. That way he might not get hanged. He promised me that if I did what he asked, then he’d let me go and get apprenticed to Mr Hicks as I’d been wanting to. So that was what happened, and I never said anything in court about that day, or what he’d threatened to do. Only it made no difference, and he was found guilty and hanged in any case.’ He bit his lip. ‘Will I get into trouble, now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Frances. ‘But I am not about to report you for what you said or failed to say in court. I must admit that I had been wondering if your father was innocent of the crime, and wrongly executed, but from what you tell me now, it is clear that he was guilty and properly convicted. There has been no injustice done.’

  Jack looked relieved. ‘I weren’t the only one who lied in court, anyhow.’

  ‘Oh? Another witness lied?’

  ‘Yes. There was a bicyclist there in the lane that day – the man who came after Mr Vance. He saw everything. Only at father’s trial he said that he was back at the lodge at the time of the murder, and that wasn’t true. Father said to me straight off that he was done for, as he’d been seen killing Mr Vance, and he thought he’d be arrested at once, but it took longer than he thought, and then our lawman told us that we had a chance as no one had seen the murder, but that was wrong. Then we thought maybe the man who saw it didn’t want to let on that he was there. Anyhow he never told the truth of it.’

  Frances was astonished. ‘Jack – let me understand this. You say that there was another bicyclist who came on the scene just after Mr Vance had his accident, and this man actually saw your father commit the murder – but he denied ever having been there?’

  ‘That’s right. Father knew he’d have to pay the price, but he didn’t care. He might have run off, but he had nowhere to run to, and he said he’d stay and whatever happened next would happen. That was father for you.’

  ‘Did he say who the man was? The one who saw the murder?’

  ‘Yes, he knew him all right. It was that champion racing man, Mr Iliffe. Father was standing over Mr Vance after he hit him, and then he looked up and saw the man stopped there with his machine, staring at what he had just seen. Father didn’t say anything. Mr Iliffe didn’t say anything. They both just looked at each other, and then Father threw the stave onto the ground and walked off.’

  Frances was thoughtful. ‘I suppose it might be understandable that Mr Iliffe wouldn’t have confessed to being there. There was always the suggestion that Mr Vance was racing someone, another member of the BBC, which I had thought improbable, as Mr Vance himself had warned the other members of the dan
gers. If Iliffe and Vance had been going down the lane too fast, racing each other, then it was extremely foolish and negligent of them both. If Mr Iliffe had suggested the race then he would have felt guilty at getting his friend into danger. After all, as a professional bicyclist he does have a reputation to protect.’

  ‘They weren’t racing,’ said Jack.

  ‘Oh? How do you know?’

  ‘Father said that when he was turning the cart into the farmyard he heard the sound of a bicycle coming around the corner, and looked up, and he saw Mr Vance riding towards him, and even before he saw the cart in the road and knew he would crash into it, the man was scared. He looked like all the creatures of – you know – the bad place – all them demons were after him.’

  ‘Could it have been Mr Iliffe who was after him?’ asked Frances. ‘Was there no one else on the road?’

  ‘Not that father saw.’

  ‘If it was Iliffe he would have heard the collision before he saw it, and that would have given him enough warning of the danger to enable him to slow down so he didn’t suffer the same fate. He’s a strong rider, so it’s possible. But why was he chasing after Mr Vance? Why was Vance afraid?’

  ‘That I don’t know,’ said Jack, shaking his head.

  ‘Do you know when Mr Ross-Fielder arrived? I know he found the body.’

  ‘Father was in the farmyard when he saw another man come riding up from the south, so I suppose that must have been him.’

  ‘And how long after the murder did that happen?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘Not long. Just a few minutes.’

  Frances was puzzled. According to the trial evidence, Iliffe had been at the lodge looking after the bicycles in the coach house at the time of Vance’s murder. And there was a witness to this, since Mrs Pirrie had sent the butler, Waterfield, out to him with tea and sandwiches. But according to Sam Linnett, who was not available to be questioned, at that very time Iliffe had been on Old Oak Common Lane, chasing after Morton Vance. Only minutes after the murder, Ross-Fielder had ridden up, found the body and headed back to the lodge to give the alarm, arriving at half past five, and had found Iliffe in the coach house drinking tea. How Frances would have liked to question Ross-Fielder and Waterfield about the times they had seen Iliffe, but Ross-Fielder was in police custody for his part in helping the convict Coote to escape, and Waterfield was not there to be questioned.

  Although she did not carry the notes she had made about the timing of the activity on the day of Morton Vance’s death, she had read them through so often that she could recall the salient times. The lady who lived in a cottage at the top of the lane and who had seen Morton Vance pass her house had been sure of her time because she had looked at her clock and had been adamant in court that it was correct. Ross-Fielder had been sure of the time he arrived in East Acton after discovering the body because he had heard the chiming of the church clock. Between Morton Vance passing the cottage and Ross-Fielder finding the body was about twenty minutes. From Vance passing the cottage to reaching Sam Linnett’s pig farm was a matter of only about five minutes, but something had happened on the way, something that he had perhaps seen or heard which had transformed him from a cheerful man out on a pleasant ride to someone terrified of being pursued. He might have stopped briefly and then ridden away rapidly from what he perceived as a danger. And maybe, thought Frances, that explained why he had not turned back to East Acton. He must have thought that the danger he wanted to avoid was connected with the club and he might not find safety there. He was afraid, vulnerable, and he needed to get somewhere very fast where he would not be so isolated. Somewhere like busy, bustling Hammersmith, where he would be sure to find a constable.

  But what could Vance possibly have seen? Was it feasible that he had seen Iliffe in his uniform, and his fellow club man had been doing something that had terrified and appalled him? He had raced off to report it and Iliffe had pursued him, only to come upon the scene of an accident, and witness Vance’s murder at the hands of Sam Linnett. Iliffe had then returned to East Acton. Whatever he had been doing it was not something he wanted revealed. Far better that it should be assumed he was in the coach house all the time. It was Sam Linnett’s insistence that his son say nothing about the day of Vance’s murder that had prevented Iliffe’s exposure in court, although any jury given the choice of believing a pig-man on trial for murder or a champion bicyclist would have had no difficulty in deciding whose story to accept. With what Frances now knew about Iliffe and Babbit, she thought it was possible that Vance had seen the two of them together, a secret meeting perhaps, something that neither of them would have wanted revealed, evidence of their criminal collaboration, perhaps even of a close friendship that went beyond the bounds of propriety. Both men made a great public show of being enamoured of Miss Jepson, but perhaps neither of them was. It was doubtful that either would be prepared to admit anything without proof.

  To test this possibility, Frances returned to the story told to her by Mrs Pirrie. The men coming back from the run at five o’clock, Toop departing to see his mother, the tea being made and served at about ten past five, Waterfield taking some to Iliffe in the coach house, and having a conversation with him. That placed Iliffe in the coach house between about ten and fifteen minutes past five. The murder had most probably happened during or very close to that time. Ross-Fielder had found Vance’s body at about twenty-five past. There was just not enough time for Iliffe to have ridden down the lane, witness the murder and travel back to the coach house. She was reminded of what Mrs Pirrie had said, that Iliffe had told her he would come indoors for tea later on, but then she had thought to send some out to him. This meant that Iliffe was not expecting Waterfield to bring him tea. If Iliffe’s offer to look after the coach house had been a ruse to slip away for a secret meeting with Babbit, he would not have been there when Waterfield brought him tea, but he was.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Frances wished she had her notes with her, or better still, her copies of the Bayswater Chronicle, the Times and the Acton and Chiswick Gazette, with reports of the inquest and court proceedings. Something was not quite right, but she would need to look at the details again. A tiny fact was buried deep inside her mind, and she was sure it was important, but she just couldn’t recall what it was.

  Inspector Sharrock, with a weary and jaded look, emerged from the pavilion and stood on the veranda. There were few people about now, and the dais had been dismantled and taken away, but he was still clutching the speaking trumpet, which he placed to his mouth. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘The police have now spoken to all those present at today’s unfortunate events and I can now advise you that we will no longer be requiring anyone present to remain.’ He handed the trumpet to Mr Toop, who had been waiting anxiously to hear that the club’s remaining property could at least be cleared from the field. A small stream of visitors and the last few traders headed for the gate.

  As Sharrock returned to the pavilion, beckoning his constables for a final word, an elderly gentleman wandered distractedly onto the field and stood looking about him, appearing to be very upset. A constable went to speak to him, and after a few moments, hurried to fetch Sergeant Hambling.

  ‘Is that Mr Waterfield?’ asked Frances.

  ‘It is,’ said Jack. ‘Fancy coming back after a nice visit to find all this. It’ll be a terrible shock.’ He shook his head. ‘At least Sir Hugo is better. I do hope they’ll let him go home now.’

  Sergeant Hambling strode across the field, exchanged a few words with the new arrival, then conducted Mr Waterfield to the pavilion.

  ‘I’ll go and clean the rest of the bicycles and then I can get them back to the lodge,’ said Jack.

  ‘You’ll need help with the sociable,’ said Frances. ‘I’d like to try it myself. But we’ll need another person, I expect.’

  ‘It’s not as hard as it looks as long as there’s one strong rider. There’s sisters go out on it, so it can be managed by two ladies as well as
a lady and a gent. I’ve seen a gent and his son ride one, and the boy no more than eight years old, if that, and his feet could hardly reach down.’

  ‘Well, if you need me to be a second for you, let me know.’

  ‘I will Miss. Thank you. I’ll get on, now.’ He looked drained, with barely the energy to do his work.

  ‘Is there anything you need? Have you had enough to eat and drink? I can fetch you something. Tea?’

  ‘That’s very kind, but I have a flask of water and that will be enough.’ He trudged away.

  Frances sighed. Tea was usually the answer to so many things. It refreshed and enlivened her and helped her to think. Sometimes the mere act of making a pot of tea, the sequence of those familiar actions, allowed her to meditate on the things that troubled her. She thought she could do with some tea now, but the last pot she had made would be cold by now and not palatable. She decided to return to the pavilion and see if she could make herself useful.

  Mayberry was at the door, and knew better than to argue about letting her in. She found Sergeant Hambling and Inspector Sharrock in the corridor outside the tearoom. Through the partly open door, Frances saw Mr Waterfield sitting at a table looking frightened and confused.

  ‘He’s Mr Waterfield, Sir Hugo’s gentleman,’ Hambling was explaining. ‘He was away visiting his sister and has just returned. I thought I’d better sit him down as he looked very unsteady on his legs. He went back to the lodge just now and found no one there, and then he came here.’

  ‘I’ll have a word,’ said Sharrock. ‘Once Sir Hugo is stronger on his feet we’ll hand him over to Waterfield and Mrs Pirrie.’ Sharrock noticed Frances. ‘Kitchen is that way,’ he said, pointedly.

  ‘Inspector, I have just been speaking to Jack Linnett, and he has told me that there was a witness to his father’s murder of Morton Vance. At the time the terrible shock of the event drove it from his mind, and it has only just now come back to him.’