Chickenfeed

by Minette Walters

  ‘I checked with Mr and Mrs Cosham and they confirmed what he said. I also visited the Coldicotts. They did the same. But I’m not sure Bessie Coldicott is quite the casual friend he claimed. She’s a handsome piece and she talked about Thorne’s farm as if she’s a regular visitor.’

  ‘Interesting.’ The inspector steepled his fingers under his nose. ‘According to Mr Cameron, his daughter was pregnant by Thorne. Is Bessie attractive enough to make the lad wish he hadn’t been so careless?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Beck drily. ‘In terms of looks, there’s no contest.’

  Elsie’s photograph appeared in the newspapers that weekend under the caption: ‘Has anyone seen this woman?’

  It prompted two flower growers in Crowborough to come forward. They told the police they’d passed someone matching Elsie’s description at ten past five on the day she went missing. She was walking in the direction of Wesley Poultry Farm.

  This time a team of officers visited Norman’s farm. He was asked if he had any objections to the huts being searched. ‘Of course not,’ he told them. ‘I want to help all I can.’

  The inspector sent his men to check the chicken sheds while he went into the shack with Norman. He refused to sit down or take a cup of tea. Instead he moved about the room, pulling open drawers and examining Norman’s clothes.

  He asked Norman the same questions that PC Beck had asked. And received the same answers. ‘You have a good memory, Mr Thorne.’

  ‘My life’s pretty boring. There’s not much to remember.’

  ‘So the last time Elsie came here was Sunday, November 30th?’

  Norman nodded. ‘I haven’t seen her since.’

  The inspector eyed him for a moment. ‘And how often have you seen Miss Coldicott in that time?’

  ‘Just once,’ said Norman truthfully.

  Bessie had been in the shack when a reporter came to the door. Norman hid her from view by stepping outside and closing the door behind him. But Bessie had taken fright.

  ‘I don’t want to be in the papers,’ she said after the reporter had left. She was trembling.

  Norman tried to comfort her.

  ‘No,’ she said, pushing him away. ‘I can’t see you again till this is over. I won’t bring scandal on my family, Norm.’ She slipped away in the dark without saying goodbye.

  The inspector might have been reading Norman’s mind. ‘I’m told you’ve had reporters here, Mr Thorne.’

  ‘I didn’t invite them. They just keep coming.’

  ‘But you show them around and let them take photographs of you with your chickens.’

  Norman gave a morose shrug. ‘What else can I do? If I refuse, they’ll say I have something to hide. They hang around the gate, waiting for me to come out.’

  The inspector felt sorry for the lad. He had no liking for the press either. ‘It’s not easy. What are these stains?’ he asked, pointing to the table.

  ‘Blood and guts,’ said Norman. ‘It’s where I pluck and pull my hens. Sometimes I joint them and take their heads off. It depends what the customer wants. There’s a fair amount of mess if I do a batch at a time.’

  ‘Where do you hang the birds?’

  ‘From a beam in one of the empty sheds.’ He looked up. ‘Sometimes from this beam.’

  The inspector followed his gaze. ‘The one you keep your hats on?’

  ‘Yes. I move them to make room.’

  ‘How do you reach it?’

  ‘Stand on a chair.’

  ‘May I?’

  Norman pushed a seat towards him. ‘Be my guest.’

  The inspector hoisted himself up and looked along the beam. ‘It’s very clean. The upper beam’s dusty . . . but not this one.’

  ‘It’s harder to reach the top. If I stored anything up there, I wouldn’t be able to get it down.’

  ‘But why are there are no feathers, Mr Thorne? You seem to have done a splendid job of cleaning this place.’

  ‘I do my best. A chap shouldn’t let his standards go just because he lives alone.’

  The inspector stepped down and replaced the chair under the table. ‘But you don’t feel the same about the outside? Your chicken runs look as if you’ve taken a plough to them.’

  ‘It’s the hens. They scratch for worms.’

  The lad had an answer for everything, the inspector thought. He watched Norman closely as he asked his next question. ‘Why was Elsie walking along Blackness Road the day she went missing, Mr Thorne?’

  Norman’s eyes widened slightly. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Two witnesses saw her at five-ten. They said she was heading here.’

  ‘It can’t have been Elsie.’

  ‘They recognized her from the photograph you gave us.’

  ‘Well, she never arrived,’ Norman said flatly. ‘I’ll swear on any Bible you like that I have not seen Elsie Cameron since the end of November.’

  Blackness Road

  December 31st

  My darling Bessie,

  It’s been so long since I saw you. I really hoped we could spend Christmas together. But things are getting better now. The reporters have gone and the police accept that Elsie never came here. I now wonder if she killed herself in secret somewhere. She always said she’d do it if I let her down.

  She had a strange nature and not very kind parents. They forced her on me because they were bored with her moods. I should have listened to my father. But like you say, I was too young to know what I was doing.

  Honour bright, darling, I have never felt for any girl as I do for you. I was drawn to Elsie out of loneliness. I’m drawn to you out of love. Dearest of pals, you keep me going through the dark hours. I hope it won’t be long before this nightmare is over and we can be together again.

  Your own dear,

  Groombridge Road

  Crowborough

  January 13th

  Dear Norman,

  Sorry not to have replied before but we’ve been busy at work. I don’t think we should see each other for a while. Dad doesn’t want me walking out with you until the police go away. People might gossip. I’ll write again when I can. Mum and Dad aren’t too keen, though.

  With love,

  Wesley Poultry Farm, Blackness Road – January 14th, 1925

  A SHADOW DARKENED THE doorway of the shack. Norman looked up from Bessie’s letter to see a stranger standing there. Hastily, he used the sleeve of his jumper to wipe tears from his eyes. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘Chief Inspector Gillan of Scotland Yard, Mr Thorne. I’m here to arrest you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Involvement in the disappearance of Miss Elsie Cameron. We have a warrant to dig up your property.’

  Norman looked past him to where several policemen were leaning on spades. ‘What happened to the other inspector?’

  ‘Scotland Yard was called in a week ago. I’ve been running the case since your neighbour, Mrs Annie Price, gave evidence to Sussex police. She saw Miss Cameron walk through your gate at five-fifteen on the evening of December 5th.’

  Norman knew Annie Price. She was one of Bessie’s despised curtain twitchers. A woman with nothing better to do in life than spy on her neighbours. ‘It wasn’t Elsie,’ he said.

  The Chief Inspector stepped into the shack. ‘Then who was it, Mr Thorne?’ He read Bessie’s letter over Norman’s shoulder. ‘Miss Coldicott?’

  ‘It wasn’t anyone. I was here alone.’

  Gillan put a hand under the young man’s arm and hauled him to his feet. ‘I’m betting Elsie’s somewhere in this ploughed field, Norman. But if I’m wrong, I’ll be the first to say sorry.’

  Four hours later, Norman was asked to account for the contents of an Oxo-cube tin. Found under a pile of rubbish in his tool shed, the tin contained a broken wrist-watch, some cheap jewellery and a bracelet.

  ‘Do these belong to Elsie Cameron?’ Gillan asked him.

  ‘Yes . . . but it’s not what you think. She hid them there the last time
she came.’

  ‘Why? They aren’t worth anything.’

  The question threw Norman. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She didn’t tell me why.’

  At nine-thirty the next morning, Gillan showed him Elsie’s overnight case. It was sodden and filthy. ‘Do you recognize any of this?’ he asked, removing the baby’s frock, the two pairs of shoes, the wash bag and a pair of damaged spectacles.

  Norman stared at the items.

  ‘The case was buried near your hut. We think these are Miss Cameron’s glasses. Who put them there?’

  Norman didn’t answer.

  ‘If we find her body, you’ll be charged with murder. Do you understand that? And the penalty for murder is to be hanged by the neck until you’re dead. Is there anything you want to tell me that might save your life?’

  Norman ran his tongue across dry lips. ‘No,’ he whispered.

  Ten hours later, he changed his mind. At eight o’clock in the evening he asked to speak to Chief Inspector Gillan.

  ‘I didn’t kill Elsie,’ he told him, ‘but I know where her body is. It’s under the chicken run where the Leghorns are.’

  ‘Do you want to make a statement, Norman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I must remind you that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.’

  Sussex Constabulary

  Statement given by Norman Thorne at 8.15 p.m. on January 15th, 1925

  I was surprised when Elsie arrived at the farm on Friday, 5 December. It was shortly after five o’clock in the evening. She was in an angry mood. She calmed down when I gave her a cup of tea and some bread and butter. I asked her why she had come and where she planned to sleep.

  She said she was going to sleep in the shack. And that she intended staying there until we were married. I told her she couldn’t do that and we had a bit of a row. At seven-thirty, I went to the Coshams to see if they could put her up for the night. They were out.

  When I got back to the farm Elsie was in a bad temper. We had a row about Bessie Coldicott. Elsie cried because I’d been unfaithful. I cooked her a boiled egg to raise her spirits. She calmed down again until about nine-thirty when I told her I had to meet Bessie off the train.

  Elsie tried to stop me going. She yelled at me and pulled me towards the bed. She said she wanted me to sleep with her. I refused and told her to go to bed on her own. She started sobbing. I could hear her as I went to the gate.

  I walked Bessie and her mother home from the station then returned to the farm about half past eleven. The light was on in the shack. It was shining through the window. When I opened the door I saw Elsie hanging from the beam by a piece of washing-line cord. I couldn’t believe it. I cut the cord and laid her on the bed. She was dead. She had her frock off and her hair was down. I put out the light and lay on the table for about an hour.

  I thought about going to Dr Turle and knocking up someone to call the police. Then I realized the position I was in. There were so many people who knew I didn’t want to marry Elsie. Who would believe I hadn’t killed her? The only thing I could think to do was bury her body and pretend I’d never seen her.

  I got out my hacksaw and sawed off her legs and head by the glow of the fire. I did that because I thought smaller pieces would be easier to bury. I put her head in a biscuit tin and wrapped the rest in newspaper. I dug holes in the chicken run nearest the gate and put Elsie into them.

  Then I burnt her clothes and cleaned the shack. I was afraid to tell the truth before. Elsie always said she’d kill herself if I let her down. But I never thought she’d do it.

  Signed:

  Crowborough police station – January 16th, 1925

  CHIEF INSPECTOR GILLAN FOLDED his hands on the table. ‘What happened to the washing-line cord?’

  ‘I burnt it with her clothes.’

  ‘Why did you do that? Why did you keep her jewellery?’

  Norman ground his knuckles into his eyes. ‘I moved all her things on to the bed when I cut her up . . . then forgot about them. She was completely naked . . . nothing on at all.’ He took a breath. ‘I found her stuff when I started to clean up . . . but I was too tired to dig any more holes by then. It was simpler to throw her clothes on the fire and hide her jewellery in the tool shed.’

  ‘You buried her suitcase.’

  ‘I didn’t want to burn the baby’s dress. It didn’t seem right.’

  Gillan offered him a cigarette. ‘The post-mortem showed she wasn’t pregnant. You were telling the truth about that at least.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But you’re lying about everything else, Norman. She didn’t hang herself. There were no rope marks on her neck. And there’s no sign that a body ever swung from your beams. They’re made of soft pine. There should be a groove where the cord bit into the wood.’

  ‘I can only tell you what I found.’

  ‘Then explain how her watch and glasses came to be broken.’

  ‘Maybe she broke them herself. She was very het up.’

  ‘Not good enough.’

  ‘Maybe I broke them when I lay on the table. Maybe she stood on them after she took them off.’ Norman dropped his head into his hands. ‘She was blind as a bat . . . but she thought she looked better without them.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘No.’

  Gillan ran his finger down a piece of paper in front of him. ‘The body was in good condition because the weather was cold and you buried it the same night. The post-mortem found bruises on Elsie’s face. Did you punch her?’

  ‘Of course not. I never hit Elsie.’

  ‘You had an argument with her.’

  ‘But I didn’t hit her, Mr Gillan. I wouldn’t have told you about the row if I had. She went down like a sack of potatoes when I cut the cord. I was standing on a chair, and there was no way I could support her weight. I think her head knocked against the chest of drawers. Would that have caused bruises?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not an expert.’ The Scotland Yard man moved his finger down a line. ‘According to this, she died two hours after eating a light meal.’

  Norman leaned forward eagerly. ‘Then that proves I didn’t kill her. She was alive when I left the shack at nine-thirty.’

  ‘There’s only your word for that.’

  ‘Except we didn’t have supper till after eight-thirty. First, I went to the Coshams and then we had a row about Bessie before I started cooking.’

  ‘But there are no witnesses to any of this, Norman. The Coshams were out and you and Elsie were alone.’

  ‘How would I know the Coshams were out if I didn’t go there?’

  Gillan shrugged. ‘It was a month before you made your statement. Anyone could have told you.’

  Norman wiped his palms nervously down his trousers. ‘But if she didn’t hang herself . . . and I didn’t hit her . . . then how does the postmortem say I killed her?’

  Gillan took his time about replying. This was the one bit that troubled him. ‘It says she died from shock.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Her nervous system failed. Her heart stopped and she collapsed.’

  Norman stared at him. ‘Does that mean her nerves killed her? How could that happen? She was always giving in to them . . . but she never came close to dying before.’

  ‘It depends what you did to her. This report suggests you punched her several times in the face then left her to die. If you hadn’t . . . if you’d stayed with her and brought her some help . . . then I wouldn’t be charging you with murder.’

  ‘But I didn’t do anything, Mr Gillan. You have to believe that. It happened the way I said in my statement.’

  Gillan pushed back his chair. ‘Then you shouldn’t have taken her head off. It’s easier to see rope marks when the neck’s intact.’ He stood up. ‘You treated that poor girl with no more respect than you show a dead chicken. And policemen don’t like that, Norman.’

  His Majesty’s Prison, Lewes – March
3rd, 1925

  AS NORMAN’S TRIAL APPROACHED three months later, his defence team became worried about his state of mind. He was putting his faith in God and seemed unaware that the weight of the evidence was against him. Sir Bernard Spilsbury, England’s most famous pathologist, had carried out the post-mortem. And Spilsbury had come down firmly in favour of murder.

  The chief medical expert for the defence was Dr Robert Brontë. He had performed a second post-mortem and was willing to say he’d found rope marks on Elsie’s neck. He would also argue that ‘death by shock’ should not result in a murder conviction. There was no evidence that Elsie’s death was intended. Nor that a collapse could have been predicted.

  But Dr Brontë enjoyed none of Spilsbury’s fame and the jury was less likely to believe him. Spilsbury had been the crown expert witness on every famous murder trial since 1910. His word alone could swing a jury.

  The defence team felt that only Norman’s father could make him understand how serious his position was. To this end, Mr Thorne was given leave to speak to his son in Lewes Prison the day before the trial. He was shown to a room on the ground floor of the remand wing.

  ‘Bearing up all right?’ he asked when Norman was brought in.

  They shook hands. ‘Pretty much. It’s good to see you, Dad.’

  He looked so young, thought Mr Thorne. Just a boy still. ‘Sit down, son. Your barrister, Mr Cassels, has asked me to talk to you about the trial. We’re all praying for a not guilty verdict, but—’ He broke off. How could he tell his only child that he might hang?

  Norman reached across the table and gently stroked his father’s hand. ‘But the jury might believe this Spilsbury fellow?’

  Mr Thorne nodded.

  ‘Mr Cassels says they have to prove I meant to kill Elsie. But how can they do that if she died of shock? You can’t frighten someone to death.’