Innocent Victims

by Minette Walters

  “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 post-mortem 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.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  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.”

  “Spilsbury will argue that the bruises on her face show you hit her . . . and that her watch and glasses were broken during the attack. If she was in a bad way when you left her to meet Bessie, then the jury might feel you meant her to die.”

  “What about the rope marks that Dr. Brontë found?”

  Mr. Thorne sighed. “It’s only his opinion, Norman. Spilsbury will say there were no rope marks.”

  “But there were, Dad. I saw them when I cut the cord away from Elsie’s neck. I just don’t understand why they can’t tell she died from hanging. Doesn’t it show in your lungs if you can’t breathe?”

  “She may never have intended to kill herself. According to Dr. Brontë, just drawing a noose round your neck can cause shock.”

  “That’s what Mr. Cassels said. But I don’t understand why.”

  “It’s something called the vagal reflex. Some people are extremely sensitive to pressure on their necks. There’s a case of a woman who died within three seconds of her lover’s hand caressing her throat.”

  “But I found Elsie hanging, Dad. She meant to do it.”

  “Perhaps not. Perhaps it was a little piece of drama that went wrong.”

  Norman shook his head. “I still don’t understand.”

  “Dr. Brontë thinks she was planning to frighten you. If she had the noose ready for when you came home . . . then stood on the chair when she heard the gate open—” Mr. Thorne broke off on another sigh. “Death by vagal reflex would have caused her to fall forward. That’s why you found her hanging.”

  Norman stared. “Are you saying it was an accident?”

  His father nodded. “It could have been. Which is why there were no marks on the beam. She wasn’t there long enough. Not if you cut her down as soon as you found her.”

  “I did,” Norman said with sudden excitement.

  “Will the jury believe me? Will they believe Dr. Brontë?”

  “Maybe . . . if we can prove she used threats of suicide to get her own way. We can certainly prove she was no stranger to play-acting. She told everyone she was pregnant. Even bought a baby’s dress to keep up the pretence.”

  “I told you s
he was lying, Dad. Her parents should have put her in a hospital. She wasn’t right in the head. She needed help.”

  “Two of her co-workers will say that in court, but whether anyone will believe them—” Mr. Thorne lapsed into a brief silence. “You should have gone to the police when you found her, Norman. Why didn’t you?”

  His son’s eyes grew bleak. “Because they wouldn’t have believed me. They don’t believe me now.”

  “They might have done. It was cutting her up that makes people think you’re a murderer. Elsie deserved better, Norman.”

  A shudder ran through the boy’s frame.

  “What made you do it?”

  Tears wet Norman’s lashes. “It didn’t seem so bad. She was just another dead thing. I reckon you shut down your feelings when you have to kill chickens all the time. Will the jury understand that, Dad?”

  “No, son,” said Mr. Thorne sadly. “I don’t think they will.”

  EPILOGUE

  Norman Thorne was found guilty of the murder of Elsie Cameron on March 16th, 1925. He was sentenced to death by hanging. The date of his execution was fixed for April 22nd. By strange chance, this would have been Elsie’s twenty-seventh birthday had she lived.

  Public concern was expressed about the verdict. There were many who felt the trial had failed to prove “beyond reasonable doubt” that Norman had caused, or meant to cause, Elsie’s death. Even Sir Arthur Conan Doyle—the creator of Sherlock Holmes—was moved to ask questions.

  It came to nothing. Norman’s appeal against his conviction and sentence was rejected. The night before his hanging, he wrote to his father. It was a letter full of hope.

  There will be a flash and all will be finished. No, not finished, just starting for I go to God. I’ll wait for you just as others are waiting for me. I am free from sin. With all my love . . .

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  It interests me that Norman Thorne never confessed to killing Elsie Cameron. Not even on the gallows. To the end, he swore he found her hanging in his shack. This doesn’t prove he was innocent. But for a young man who believed in God, it was a dangerous gamble to take if he was guilty. Norman knew that a sinner must repent if he wanted to go to heaven.

  I believe the truth is what I’ve suggested in this story. Elsie planned to frighten Norman when he came home by standing on a chair with a noose round her neck. But her cry for attention went wrong. Perhaps the cold made her clumsy. Perhaps she pulled the noose too tight by accident.

  In some people, the vagal or carotid reflex kills rapidly. Compressing the nerves and arteries in the neck causes the brain to shut down and the heart to stop. This form of “accidental” death can occur during solo sex acts when a noose is used to enhance orgasm. Victims—usually men—tend to be recorded as “suicides” to avoid upsetting their families. However, the best-known use of reflex black- out is when Mr Spock presses his fingers to a person’s neck in Star Trek. Even though Star Trek is fictional, the principle is the same.

  Psychoanalysis was still in its infancy in 1924, but those who knew Elsie Cameron described her as mentally unstable. They said she was “depressed,” “neurotic” and “nervy.” She had a fear of being left on the shelf and thought people laughed at her. Her co-workers complained that she was “moody” and “difficult.”

  Her problems grew during her four-year relationship with Norman. She couldn’t hold down a job. She wanted to be loved in a “fairy tale” way and was obsessed with getting married. She swung between anger and depression when she couldn’t have her own way. A doctor tried to cure her condition with sedatives (probably an early form of barbiturates).

  Elsie’s behaviour suggests she suffered from Borderline Personality Disorder. Sufferers of BPD have low self-image and are often depressed. They can be difficult to live with. They have constant mood swings and become angry when they feel let down. They think in black-and-white terms, and form intense, conflict-ridden relationships. Threats of suicide are common.

  Whatever happened the night Elsie died, I am sure her disturbed state of mind played a part in her death. Either her stubborn refusal to leave provoked Norman into hitting her, or she staged a “suicide” to make him feel guilty enough to give up Bessie.

  At Norman’s trial, the jury was swayed by Sir Bernard Spilsbury’s testimony. They decided that Elsie collapsed as the result of an attack and that Norman had intended to kill her. Yet, even if he had hit her, there was no evidence she was dead when he left the shack. Nor that he could have predicted she would die later from shock.

  I’m more persuaded by a sentence in Norman’s statement. He said he found Elsie suspended from the beam with her “frock off and her hair down.” Yet it was a cold December night. Norman himself would have been wearing an overcoat. Why would it even occur to him to say he found Elsie hanging naked . . .

  . . . unless it was true?

  THE TINDER BOX

  ***The Daily Telegraph—

  Wednesday, 24th June, 1998

  Sowerbridge Man Arrested

  Patrick O’Riordan, 35, an unemployed Irish labourer, was charged last night with the double murder of his neighbours Lavinia Fanshaw, 93, and her live-in nurse, Dorothy Jenkins, 67. The murders have angered the small community of Sowerbridge where O’Riordan and his parents have lived for fifteen years. The elderly victims were brutally battered to death after Dorothy Jenkins interrupted a robbery on Saturday night. “Whoever killed them is a monster,” said a neighbour. “Lavinia was a frail old lady with Alzheimer’s who never hurt a soul.” Police warned residents to remain calm after a crowd gathered outside the O’Riordan home when news of the arrest became public. “Vigilante behaviour will not be tolerated,” said a spokesman. O’Riordan denies the charges.

  11:30 p.m.—Monday, 8th March, 1999

  Even at half past eleven at night, the lead news story on local radio was still the opening day of Patrick O’Riordan’s trial. Siobhan Lavenham, exhausted after a fourteen-hour stint at work, listened to it in the darkness of her car while she negotiated the narrow country lanes back to Sowerbridge village.

  “. . . O’Riordan smiled as the prosecution case unfolded . . . harrowing details of how ninety-three-year-old Lavinia Fanshaw and her live-in nurse were brutally bludgeoned to death before Mrs. Fanshaw’s rings were ripped from her fingers . . . scratch marks and bruises on the defendant’s face, probably caused by a fight with one of the women . . . a crime of greed triggered by O’Riordan’s known resentment of Mrs. Fanshaw’s wealth . . . unable to account for his whereabouts at the time of the murders . . . items of jewellery recovered from the O’Riordan family home which the thirty-five-year-old Irishman still shares with his elderly parents . . .”

  With a sinking heart, Siobhan punched the Off button and concentrated on her driving. “The Irishman . . .” Was that a deliberate attempt to inflame racist division, she wondered, or just careless shorthand? God, how she loathed journalists! Confident of a guilty verdict, they had descended on Sowerbridge like a plague of locusts the previous week in order to prepare their background features in advance. They had found dirt in abundance, of course. Sowerbridge had fallen over itself to feed them with hate stories against the whole O’Riordan family.

  She thought back to the day of Patrick’s arrest, when Bridey had begged her not to abandon them. “You’re one of us, Siobhan. Irish through and through, never mind you’re married to an Englishman. You know my Patrick. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Is it likely he’d beat Mrs. Fanshaw to death when he’s never raised a hand against his own father? Liam was a devil when he still had the use of his arm. Many’s the time he thrashed Patrick with a stick when the drunken rages were on him, but never once did Patrick take the stick to him.”

  It was a frightening thing to be reminded of the bonds that tied people together, Siobhan had thought as she looked out of Bridey’s window towards the silent, angry crowd that was gathering
in the road. Was being Irish enough of a reason to side with a man suspected of slaughtering a frail bedridden old woman and the woman who looked after her?

  “Patrick admits he stole from Lavinia,” Siobhan had pointed out.

  Tears rolled down Bridey’s furrowed cheeks. “But not her rings,” she said. “Just cheap trinkets that he was too ignorant to recognise as worthless paste.”

  “It was still theft.”

  “Mother of God, do you think I don’t know that?” She held out her hands beseechingly. “A thief he may be, Siobhan, but never a murderer.”

  And Siobhan had believed her because she wanted to. For all his sins, she had never thought of Patrick as an aggressive or malicious man—too relaxed by half, many would say—and he could always make her and her children laugh with his stories about Ireland, particularly ones involving leprechauns and pots of gold hidden at the ends of rainbows. The thought of him taking a hammer to anyone was anathema to her.

  And yet . . . ?

  In the darkness of the car she recalled the interview she’d had the previous month with a detective inspector at Hampshire Constabulary Headquarters who seemed perplexed that a well-to-do young woman should have sought him out to complain about police indifference to the plight of the O’Riordans. She wondered now why she hadn’t gone to him sooner.

  Had she really been so unwilling to learn the truth . . . ?

  Wednesday, 10th February, 1999

  The detective shook his head. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about, Mrs. Lavenham.”

  Siobhan gave an angry sigh. “Oh, for goodness’ sake! The hate campaign that’s being waged against them. The graffiti on their walls, the constant telephone calls threatening them with arson, the fact that Bridey’s too frightened to go out for fear of being attacked. There’s a war going on in Sowerbridge which is getting worse the closer we come to Patrick’s trial, but as far as you’re concerned, it doesn’t exist. Why aren’t you investigating it? Why don’t you respond to Bridey’s telephone calls?”