The Mitford Murders

by Jessica Fellowes

  ‘And you never heard from Roland again?’

  ‘No,’ said Timothy. ‘Not that that was unusual. I lost touch with quite a few of the men. Most wanted to forget about those days. There have been one or two reunion events, but if someone doesn’t show up, you just assume they want no part of it any more.’

  ‘You mentioned a godmother he liked,’ said Guy. ‘Did he say anything else about her?’

  ‘Nothing, old boy. Except that her mind had gone, so he hadn’t even her any more, really.’

  There was a pause. ‘Did you know the nurse Florence Shore?’ asked Guy.

  ‘Wasn’t she the one who was killed on the train?’

  Guy nodded.

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard some of the men talk about her. I know she was stationed out in Ypres when we were there. She nursed one or two of my compatriots. But I never met her myself,’ said Timothy.

  ‘Do you know if she knew Roland?’ Guy pressed.

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Timothy looked askance. ‘Are you implying you think Roland did it?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Guy. He decided to risk a final question. ‘Do you think Roland is capable of killing someone? In cold blood, I mean.’

  ‘Good god, man! What sort of a question is that? What do his family think of him?’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ stammered Guy. ‘It was something I needed to ask but you needn’t answer.’

  ‘We fought a war,’ said Timothy sombrely. ‘We were all killers.’

  Guy looked at the floor, feeling ashamed of himself. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Thank you for talking to me. It’s most appreciated.’

  Timothy turned away from him, his hand slack in his lap, his eyes staring out to the middle distance at something Guy hoped he’d never see.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Guy and Harry met on the corner of Bridge Place and Wilton Road, not far from the police station but not too close, either. Harry had sent a note to Guy’s house to say he had something important to tell him.

  ‘What is it? You’re behaving like a spy,’ said Guy, though he couldn’t deny that he felt pretty thrilled at the cloak-and-dagger atmosphere.

  Harry was in uniform and had skulked along the road to the pre-arranged meeting spot, though it had made Guy laugh. Harry’s smallness, his uniform and his good looks did not allow for an incognito assignment.

  ‘I feel like one,’ said Harry, looking from side to side like a pantomime villain. ‘If Jarvis caught me, I’d be done for treason, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Go on, then. Tell me.’

  ‘Mabel Rogers telephoned. She said she’d been burgled and wanted you to go and see her. She said it was connected to the death of her friend, Florence Shore. Obviously you couldn’t go, so Jarvis sent around Bob and Lance, and they said it was just like Mr Marchant when they turned up. She was crying and that but said nothing was missing after all. They put it down to her being an old lady and going a bit funny.’

  Guy rubbed his nose. The air had started to take on a distinct chill in the evenings and he hadn’t put a vest on that morning. ‘Do you think I should go around there?’

  ‘What are you asking me for?’ said Harry. ‘I thought I’d pass it on because you keep on about that case. If you want to get yourself in further trouble, that’s your call. I only thought you’d like to know about it, that’s all.’

  ‘I do. Thank you. I’ll have a think. This was this morning, you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harry, his eyes following a pretty girl walking down the street, her lilac dress swinging just below her knees. ‘Anyway, I’d better go. For God’s sake, you didn’t hear it from me.’

  ‘Scout’s honour,’ said Guy and they both walked away at the same time in opposite directions.

  There was only one thing to do. Guy headed straight for Carnforth Lodge. As before, the building looked grey and uninviting. The front door was firmly shut this time, however, and when Guy rang the bell, it was opened by the same porter. Now that he was standing, Guy could see he was a tall man, almost two inches taller than Guy, and thin, underfed, even. He did not look as if he had shaved that morning.

  ‘I’ve come to see Miss Rogers,’ said Guy. He had no uniform on this time and wondered if the porter would recognise him. He did.

  ‘Follow me,’ said the porter.

  As before, Mabel was behind the desk. She sat, statue still, looking out of the French windows that led to the garden. At the porter’s gentle knock, she jumped out of her skin.

  ‘What is it, Jim?’ she said, and then, at the sight of Guy behind him, ‘Mr Sullivan.’

  Jim withdrew and closed the door behind him.

  ‘Miss Rogers,’ began Guy, ‘I know this is—’ He stopped. The office was in chaos. Flowerpots had been knocked over, papers were loose on the carpet, drawers had been pulled out and upturned. ‘Someone at the station told me what had happened. I thought I’d better come and see how you were.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice muted, as if she was lying under a blanket. ‘I had hoped you would come. I telephoned your station but they sent two other men around. I didn’t want to talk to them. It’s been so upsetting. I …’ She turned away briefly, composed herself, then continued. ‘It’s delicate, you see. I didn’t want to talk to someone who wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Understand what?’ said Guy.

  Mabel turned to face him and brought a shaky hand to her face. ‘I’m very frightened,’ she said. ‘The man who did this, he might come back. Supposing he comes back when I’m here? Oh God—’ She broke down in a flood of tears, her back shuddering.

  Guy was aghast. He didn’t dare to touch her so he stood and waited until the wave had subsided. ‘Miss Rogers, try to tell me what happened.’

  Mabel wiped her face with a handkerchief. ‘You see, someone has been in here but I haven’t been burgled exactly.’

  ‘You haven’t?’

  ‘No, that is, I had money and some jewellery here in the safe and none of it was taken. But they took a bundle of letters that Flo had written to me.’

  ‘Do you think that’s what they were after?’

  ‘No, there was another letter, which was always kept separately. It was with Flo’s things, in her room, but they didn’t go up there because Jim heard them in here and they ran off when they heard him coming.’

  ‘What made you check Flo’s room?’

  ‘I thought I’d better see in case anything was missing from there. I’ve hardly been up there since … That’s when I found the letter.’ Mabel pushed it across the desk to him.

  ‘This?’ said Guy. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a letter that Flo wrote to me from Ypres. The conditions there were particularly bad; it was the first time they’d seen gas attacks. There were men that she got to know well because they required so much care. One of them was an officer, Roland Lucknor—’

  ‘Roland Lucknor,’ echoed Guy. His mind started swirling and he tried to shake it off, to focus on what Mabel was saying.

  ‘Yes. This letter is about him. You mentioned his name before, I know, but I’d forgotten it. Now I think he was the one who came here, trying to find it.’

  ‘You think Roland Lucknor was here?’ Guy was astonished.

  Mabel nodded.

  ‘But why?’ said Guy. ‘What does this letter say about him?’

  ‘That Roland Lucknor killed Alexander Waring.’

  Outside, Guy heard an ambulance siren. ‘You’re going to have to explain,’ he said.

  Mabel put her hands on her lap and looked at him steadily. ‘Waring was his batman, and he was believed to have committed suicide. But Flo saw Roland that night and she became convinced that that wasn’t what happened. She thought Roland killed him.’

  Guy was clutching the letter but the words were a blur; he couldn’t read it without having to peer very closely. The writing was faint, the letters small. He was impatient. ‘Does Roland know she thought this?’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Mabel. ‘She di
scovered not long before her last Christmas that he had been demobilised and was in London. She wanted to go to his flat and give him a chance either to confess or deny. We argued about it – I didn’t want her to. I thought …’ She stopped and took a deep breath. ‘I thought it was too dangerous and she should go straight to the police; let them deal with it. But she said it was a terrible time in the war, he may have had his reasons. What those could have been we couldn’t possibly guess at, she said, but she ought to give him a chance. She could never see the bad in anybody, could Flo.’

  ‘Did she go to see him?’

  ‘Yes. There was a row. I don’t know what was said because I was so angry with her for going that I wouldn’t hear it. I wouldn’t hear it!’ Mabel’s eyes filled with tears. ‘And then, a few days later, she was dead.’

  ‘You think Roland Lucknor killed Florence Shore?’ said Guy, feeling as if the last piece in the jigsaw had been found, trying not to feel exhilaration at the same time as pity for this afraid woman. ‘Why didn’t you mention this before? At the inquest?’

  Mabel looked to the side. Through the French windows a cold wintry sunlight had started to shine through, piercing the grey mist London had woken up to that morning. ‘I didn’t make the connection then. Flo didn’t recognise the man who got on the train. Surely if it was Roland, she would have. Perhaps he disguised himself in some way. Anyway, I didn’t think he’d know about the letter, but she must have mentioned it to him, mustn’t she?’

  She looked up at Guy, beseeching, her hands pulling at the handkerchief. ‘Now this has happened, I’m frightened. Supposing it’s me he’s after. What if I’m next?’

  30 May 1917

  Ypres

  My dearest love,

  I don’t know if I should be writing this letter but I feel I must or I shall go mad with the thoughts that are constantly circling my mind. I am in my last days at Ypres now (the battle was won four days ago, if you can call anything in this war ‘won’) and thank God. Outside the sun beats down relentlessly and the clammy mud that sucks at one’s every footstep has worn me down. Inside the hospital is stifling; the stench of burned flesh, blood and septic wounds has infiltrated every pore of my being; every breath inhales the dying and the dead.

  There are still hundreds of men here, some of the sickest that we have been afraid to move, or move only slowly, amongst those who are fitter and can help them on the journey to the hospitals in England. I will return home myself for some leave, travelling on the way with the last of the men. We are all tired, we are hungry – the food here is so basic as to be unrecognisable, with only the meanest portions of meat – and some of us are desperate. If a man is on the edge, if he should do something that mere months ago he would have thought impossible of himself or another, one cannot blame him for any desperate act out here. And yet …

  I have mentioned before in my letters the officer Roland, of whom I have become fond – as fond as one allows oneself to be, knowing they all may die at any moment – as well as of his batman, Xander. They are a pair of young, handsome men and their lively talk and good humour has kept many of us going through the long nights. I know that they, too, have been maddened by this war. So remember this before you read what I must tell you next.

  One week ago, when the battle was still raging, I was doing the rounds of the ward – it must have been 3 a.m. or thereabouts. It is very dark in the night; we have low gas lights but few of them. The men lie on creaking beds that barely take their weight, and those that sleep often cry out. As we are stationed only miles from the front line, a week ago the gunfire was still incessant, noisy and somehow always with the threat of coming nearer.

  I needed to step outside to fetch something, I forget what now, and I happened to look across at the storage shed outside. Remember that, though it was the dead of night, there was constant movement of people, constant noise of battle, and I was nearly demented with tiredness and sadness, when I heard a shot come from there, though I couldn’t be absolutely certain of this, with all the shots sounding off from everywhere. Then I heard a second shot, quite soon after, and there was no doubt where I’d heard it. Almost immediately, I saw Roland come out of the hut – I recognised his officer’s hat, I think, something in the shape of him, too. He came out, looked around and saw me looking at him, and he looked startled. As if I had caught him in the act of something terrible. Then he ran deeper into the shadows.

  I didn’t know what to do. It was probably nothing, I thought. One fights against paranoia every minute here. I went back inside and carried on working. Not long after, we heard the news that Xander Waring had been found dead. The doctor made an instant assessment of suicide and he was brought into our hospital to be prepared for burial. I had been fond of Xander and requested to be the one to clean him and wrap him before he was taken away, although the task was distressing, despite everything I have seen. There was barely anything left of his face.

  It breaks one’s heart to think that this was a man once loved as a baby by his mother and now to die so alone. I know what our faith decrees about those who take their own lives but I don’t think anyone can truly understand what it must feel like to be pushed to that point.

  Roland is no longer here. I asked his CO and he said he’d been sent to England. I hadn’t known but the day before the doctor had declared Xander fit and well again and assigned him back to duty, Roland was to be sent to a hospital in England. They believe him on the train there, and perhaps he is. I can’t ask without raising too many questions.

  I think Roland killed Xander. Why else did he look at me like that as he left the hut? I should report this, I know I should, but what if Xander hoped to die? He may have seemed well, as the doctor declared, but the thought of facing more battle, more fighting, more trenches, more cold, more mud … He may not have been able to stand it.

  I can’t say anything about it now. Keep this letter, my dearest, hold on to it in a safe place, in case I should need it later. Perhaps this war will end, and justice will need to be done then.

  Most tender love,

  Flo

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  The morning after his meeting with Mabel, Guy woke up after a sleepless night of going around and around in circles about what to do next. He couldn’t believe his luck when he got downstairs and found an envelope with a brief note from Louisa, asking if they could meet. She was staying in St Leonards, she wrote, and would explain why when she saw him, but he didn’t need to come all the way down there – she could catch a train and perhaps they could go to a café by Victoria station. She put a telephone number on the note. Hastily, Guy got dressed and ran out to the nearest telephone box and left a message with the rather sour-sounding waitress at the other end to say he would be in the Regency Café opposite the entrance to Victoria station from midday and Louisa could arrive any time. He would wait as long as it took.

  In the event, he waited only forty-five minutes, long enough to be nervously drumming his teaspoon on the table top, much to the irritation of the man on the next table. He had braced himself for a long time in the café, so it was with a rush of happiness that he saw her come through the door at half past twelve. She was wearing the green felt coat he had come to love on her, old but well looked after, with large tortoiseshell buttons he fancied she had put on herself as a flourish. It was a narrow fit on her figure, and her navy skirt flared out slightly beneath. She had a serious look as she came towards him, but when she sat down she took her hat off and smiled at him.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said.

  ‘You too,’ said Louisa. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about.’

  ‘Me too!’ said Guy, bursting with his own breakthrough.

  ‘I told Lady Redesdale about Roland Lucknor. That is, I warned her off him, and she sacked me for the impertinence.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’m to blame for that,’ said Guy sadly. ‘The thing is, it was the right thing to do. I know for certain he is dangerous.’

&
nbsp; What? Had he discovered something about Stephen?

  ‘I went to see Mabel Rogers yesterday. Harry tipped me off that she had called the police to say that she’d been burgled.’

  ‘Wasn’t that rather a great risk?’

  ‘I don’t know that I’ve got anything left to lose,’ said Guy. ‘At any rate, she talked to me …’ Guy told Louisa about the letter and her belief that Roland had killed his batman.

  ‘Would the police see it as definite proof?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think so.’ Guy wasn’t sure of much in that moment but Louisa’s face opposite him. He noticed a square of green in her iris that he had never seen before. ‘But before I saw her, I’d met someone from Roland’s battalion. He seemed to have liked Roland. He told me that his batman was supposed to have committed suicide but he was very surprised to hear that; he thought it was out of character.’

  ‘What was the batman’s name?’

  ‘Alexander Waring.’ Guy saw her face. ‘Why? Does that mean something?’

  Louisa pulled the two bank books out of her pocket. ‘I took these from Roland’s room. I don’t know why, I did it without thinking. I thought it was odd of him to have two. One belongs to him and the other to Alexander Waring.’

  Guy grabbed them. ‘Do they say anything?’

  ‘I don’t know, I can’t really understand them. I knew they were friends because Nancy found a book in his pocket that had a loving message in it, to “Xander”, from Roland. We thought it strange that he should own a book that he’d obviously given to someone else, but I suppose if Xander is dead …’

  ‘What do you mean, Nancy found it in his pocket? What’s going on – stealing bank books and going through pockets?’

  Louisa took a breath. ‘I’ll explain, but before I do that, there’s something I need to tell you about me,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ said Guy. Louisa seemed to have taken a completely different turn, but then he’d never been terribly good at understanding women. Hadn’t Harry told him often enough?