He heard the sudden tremor in her voice. ‘He wasn’t the one shot Mrs Luard, sir. He was here with me when the poor lady died.’
‘And you’ll swear to that on the Bible, I suppose?’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘I doubt it. The truth is he’ll beat you within an inch of your life if you don’t lie for him.’ Taylor dropped his arm and stepped away. ‘You’re a better fit for a woman-killer than the Major-General, Mr Farrell.’
‘You heard the wife,’ the man growled. ‘It wasn’t me. What business would I have had in Frankfield Park that day?’
‘A better question would be, what business did you have here at 3.15 on a Monday afternoon? Why weren’t you out working?’
‘Times are hard.’
‘Is that right? So where did your beer money come from in the pub this lunchtime? Did you pawn a couple of stolen rings, perhaps?’
Farrell wasn’t used to fighting men. He signalled his moves in advance and looked surprised when Taylor dodged. The Superintendent easily landed a punch in the pit of the lumbering oaf’s stomach, but it was hardly a fair contest. Farrell was drunk, and Taylor had been a champion boxer in his day.
The man doubled up, winded. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he whined. ‘It wasn’t me killed Mrs Luard.’ He flicked an assessing glance at his wife. ‘It’s the ones who were out and about you should be after.’
Taylor felt – rather than saw – the woman’s sudden movement. He glanced round and watched her grab the wrist of the thin-faced youth who was standing beside her. The boy looked scared, and it seemed to Taylor that his mother was trying to keep him from running.
‘It’s you who keeps picking the fight,’ Taylor told Farrell. ‘I’m just defending myself.’
The man made a retching sound. ‘Yeah, well, you’d better be watching your back from now on.’
‘You interest me more and more, Mr Farrell. Is that how you usually attack a person? From behind?’
There was a short silence before the woman spoke. ‘You have to believe me, sir. John was sleeping off the drink . . . like he does every afternoon.’
Taylor eyed her for a moment then shifted his gaze to the youth. ‘Is this Will? What about him? Where was he when Mrs Luard was shot?’
The woman tightened her grip on the lad’s wrist. ‘He was here,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘I can’t do the laundry without him.’
* * *
Taylor’s last visit that day was to Ightham police station. He expected the local bobby to be manning the desk, but instead he found George Hamble sorting through some notes.
Taylor propped his shoulder against the wall. ‘Anything new?’ he asked.
The Inspector shook his head. ‘What about your end?’
‘I don’t know yet.’ Taylor took Sarah Anderson’s list from his pocket and placed it on the desk. ‘Have you come across any of these families?’
The other man glanced at the names. ‘Every copper in the district knows them.’
‘For what?’
‘Drunk and disorderly . . . petty theft . . . trespass . . . vandalism. They take up more police time than everyone else round here put together. Why are you interested?’
‘Whoever shot Mrs Luard probably has a history of criminal behaviour. It’s a big step from honest citizen to ruthless murderer.’
The Inspector gave a dry laugh. ‘Unless she was killed by a jealous husband who also happens to be a Justice of the Peace.’
Taylor shook his head. ‘There’d still be a history. The Major-General would have given her a black eye every time she tried to lock him out of her bedroom.’
Hamble placed his hand on the list. ‘There are some bad apples here but I can’t see any of them shooting Mrs Luard. They wouldn’t have dared. Country folk have more respect for their betters than city dwellers.’
Taylor moved to the window. Dusk was falling quickly but he could see a little knot of serving girls, hurrying to buy bread before the baker closed for the night. Here and there, flickering candles shone through ground-floor windows. In the gathering darkness he might have been looking at a street in the East End.
‘What if a woman like Mrs Luard was murdered in Hyde Park, George? Where do you think we’d be looking for her murderer? Out here in the wilds of Kent or somewhere in London?’
‘London.’
‘Even closer. We’d be looking for people who lived and worked in the Hyde Park area. Criminals tend to operate close to home because they know the best escape routes.’
‘Our man had two and a half hours to disappear.’
‘Maybe so, but don’t you find it odd that a stranger managed to enter and leave Frankfield Park without being seen? How did he get there? On foot? On a bicycle? Which direction did he come from? Several people saw the Major-General but no one remembers a stranger.’
‘No one remembers the people on this list either.’
‘How do you know?’ Taylor turned from the window. ‘Has anyone even been asked that question?’
Chapter Eleven
Saturday, 5 September 1908 –
Stone Street, morning
Saturday morning broke cold and clear, and the Scotland Yard detectives put on extra vests to travel by pony and trap. They planned to start in the village of Stone Street before moving on to Borough Green and the other places beyond Ightham.
Kent’s police chief, Henry Warde, had refused the London visitors the use of his Daimler because it was too well known. Asking questions of the poor and needy was Superintendent Taylor’s line of inquiry. If Scotland Yard came up with anything, Kent Police would take the credit. If they didn’t, Warde would deny that the poor had ever been his target.
Stone Street was a smaller village than Ightham, clustered on the southern border of Frankfield Park. For that reason the people who lived there were of interest to Taylor. In particular, one family on Sarah Anderson’s list.
‘Mrs Blaine,’ she had written. ‘Three young children, husband in prison, and an older stepson, Michael (20). She’s afraid of him.’
‘What’s the plan?’ Constable Philpott asked as the village came into view.
Taylor ordered the driver to stop and jumped down from the seat. The broadleaf woodland of Frankfield Park ran along the other side of the road, and some five hundred yards ahead on the right, he could just make out the turning that led to St Lawrence’s Church and the wicket gate where the Luards had separated for the last time.
‘We’ll go to house-to-house,’ he told Philpott. ‘I want the name or description of anyone seen walking along this road on the 24th August, including the people who live here.’
Memories were surprisingly good. As several villagers said, it focused the mind to have a murder on the doorstep. The same names cropped up again and again. Various tradesmen. The baker’s boy on his bicycle. The butcher’s cart delivering meat. The farrier coming to shoe one of Mr Wallace’s horses. The vicar in his car.
One or two claimed to have seen Major-General Luard and Sergeant emerge from Church Road and turn towards Godden Green. But of more interest to Taylor, an elderly farm worker said he had noticed Michael Blaine heading up the same road some two hours earlier.
‘Did you see him come back?’ the Superintendent asked.
‘Never do. Stays out till all hours.’
‘Where does he work?’
The old man shrugged. ‘You’ll have to ask him. I don’t pry into other people’s affairs.’
‘Does he go out poaching?’
‘Not my place to say.’
Taylor put a hand on the door to keep it open. ‘Are you afraid of Michael Blaine?’
There was a tiny pause. ‘His stepmother is.’ With a sudden push he shut the policeman out of the house.
The Blaines’ house – a wooden shack – stood at the end of a rutted lane, on the other side of the road from the Church Road turning. It was a quarter the size of the summer house at Frankfield House, had no windows and was in a bad state of repair. The
rickety front door stood open to let some light in.
‘I’d probably want to vandalise La Casa myself if I lived in a dump like this,’ Philpott muttered to his boss as the pair of detectives approached.
Taylor was thinking the same. He rapped his knuckles on the door frame. ‘Mrs Blaine,’ he called, peering into the gloomy interior. ‘I’m Superintendent Taylor of Scotland Yard and this is Constable Philpott. May we come in?’
There was a scurry of movement before a woman appeared in front of them. Her alarm was obvious but she did her best to hide it. She tried to keep the two men outside but Taylor had already stepped over the threshold.
‘We’re asking everyone in Stone Street where they were and who they saw on the day Mrs Luard died,’ he told her. He smiled at the three little urchins who clustered around her skirt. ‘Were you out playing that day, kids? Do you remember seeing the Major-General and his dog?’
‘They don’t know nothing,’ said Mrs Blaine, shooing the children outside. ‘None of us does.’
She threw a worried look towards the corner of the room and Taylor followed her gaze. He made out the figure of a young man, standing in the shadows. His hair looked tousled as if he’d just got up. ‘You must be Michael,’ said Taylor.
‘What if I am?’
The Superintendent produced one of his lazy smiles. ‘I’m told you do labouring jobs at Frankfield Park from time to time.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Were you there when Mrs Luard was killed?’
‘No. Last time they needed me was July. You can check it in their records.’
Taylor nodded. ‘So who was employing you on the 24th?’ His eyes were adjusting to the dimness and he could see the rigid set of the youngster’s shoulders and jawline.
‘Can’t remember . . . could have been anyone.’
‘Give me some names,’ Taylor said, taking his notebook and pencil from his pocket.
‘He was here with me,’ Mrs Blaine blurted out. ‘Ain’t that right, Michael?’
‘Yeah.’
Taylor shook his head. ‘You were seen walking up Church Road at about 12.30. Where were you going?’
A look of hostility glittered in Blaine’s eyes. He wasn’t used to having his movements questioned by anyone. ‘I sure as hell wasn’t going to Frankfield Park.’
Taylor flipped to the front of his notebook. ‘You were at the summer house the next morning. One of the constables took your name.’
‘So? It wasn’t just me that was curious.’
‘How come you weren’t working that day either?’ Taylor glanced around the cramped room. There was a mattress for the mother and younger children, a couple of wooden chairs and a folded blanket which was probably what Blaine rolled himself up in at night. ‘It looks to me as if your stepmother needs every penny you can earn.’
‘We get by.’
‘Only through the kindness of ladies like Mrs Luard.’ Taylor turned back to the woman. ‘You must be worried her charities won’t help you now that she’s dead.’
Mrs Blaine looked away, unable to meet his eye. ‘Her husband should hang for what he did.’
‘Except it wasn’t the Major-General who murdered her, Mrs Blaine. She was attacked by two men, and one of them had a revolver. We think the weapon was stolen from a house in this area.’
There was no response.
‘The man with the revolver used the butt to club Mrs Luard down. She lay unconscious for several minutes before he and his friend decided to shoot her.’ He turned to Michael Blaine. ‘It was a stupid and vicious crime,’ he said. ‘The sort that low-grade vermin commit.’
The young man took a step forward, balling his fists. ‘Save your breath. What happened over there was nothing to do with me.’
Taylor ignored him. ‘The only reason Mrs Luard is dead is because she knew her killers. We’re looking for local men – aged between seventeen and twenty – with a history of thieving and poaching. There’s no trust between them. They took it in turns to fire into her head so that if one of them hangs they both will.’
He watched the colour drain from Mrs Blaine’s face and saw the speed with which her stepson gripped her arm in an iron fist in case she tried to speak. ‘I guess it’s true what everyone’s saying,’ Michael hissed. ‘You’ll make a poor man swing rather than the bastard she married. You’ve already been after Will Farrell. Now you think you can come after me.’
Taylor stared him down. ‘The Major-General can prove he was halfway to Godden Green when his wife was shot. Can you do the same?’
‘I don’t have to. It wasn’t me that killed her.’
‘Then you’d better hope Will Farrell stays quiet. I gave him an easy ride yesterday.’
‘You’ve got nothing on either of us.’
Taylor glanced around the room. ‘So it won’t matter to you if we search this place?’
‘Like hell you will,’ Blaine snarled. ‘Where’s your warrant? We’ve got the same rights as the rich.’
‘What are you afraid we’re going to find, Michael?’
‘Nothing. I’m afraid of what you’ll plant on me. You think you can treat us like dirt just because we’re poor. Mrs Luard was the same. She made us beg for every penny she handed out.’
‘You’ve never begged in your life,’ Taylor said coldly. ‘You send your stepmother out to do it for you. The world is full of worthless layabouts who’d rather be kept by women than lift a finger for themselves.’
The youth’s eyes narrowed angrily. ‘You don’t know nothing.’
Taylor turned towards the door. ‘I know this. Mrs Luard would still be alive if she’d left you to starve in the workhouse.’
Chapter Twelve
Saturday, 5 September 1908 –
Sevenoaks, late evening
Henry Warde threaded his way through the saloon bar of the Farmer’s Inn to where Taylor and Philpott were sitting. The Superintendent slid a pint of ale across the table. ‘Drink up,’ he said. ‘We’re two ahead of you.’
Kent’s Chief Constable put his hat on the table and sat down. ‘How did it go?’
‘So-so. We’re frozen to death but we visited every family on Mrs Anderson’s list. Most of them allowed us to search their houses. The further we drove from Ightham the more willing they were to let us look.’
‘Did you find anything?’
Taylor shook his head.
‘So it was a waste of time?’
‘Not exactly.’ Taylor took out his notebook. ‘It’s all in here. The most likely culprits are Michael Blaine and Will Farrell. We’ll need warrants to search their houses but I doubt we’ll find anything.’
Warde took a mouthful of beer and ran his eye over Taylor’s notes. ‘There’s a sighting of Blaine near Frankfield Park . . . two or three witnesses claiming that Blaine and Farrell go poaching together . . . and someone who says he knows Farrell wasn’t at home on the 24th.’ He shook his head. ‘We can’t arrest them on this.’
‘Not for murder,’ Taylor agreed, ‘but Will Farrell’s scared out of his wits. I might be able to crack him if we can bring him in on a poaching charge.’
‘How?’
‘By persuading him that whoever fired the second shot isn’t guilty of murder. You can’t kill someone who’s already dead.’
Warde frowned. ‘That’s no defence in law. If there were two of them, they were jointly to blame for what happened.’
‘But Will might avoid the noose if he gives us Blaine. A good barrister will argue that he only fired because he was afraid Blaine would kill him if he refused.’
‘How do you know it was Blaine who shot first?’
‘I don’t, but I can’t see him taking orders from a seventeen-year-old. Michael Blaine’s a much stronger character than Will Farrell. If Michael hadn’t wanted Mrs Luard dead, the murder wouldn’t have happened.’
Warde toyed with the pages of the notebook. ‘It’s a good theory,’ he said, ‘but that’s all it is. What if you’re wrong?’
&nb
sp; Taylor opened his tobacco pouch. ‘The case will never be solved,’ he said, smoothing a cigarette paper on the table. ‘We’re out of leads and out of ideas.’
* * *
It wasn’t in Henry Warde’s nature to make a decision in a hurry. As the next day was Sunday – and all good people would be in church – he said he’d use the rest of the weekend to think about it.
He was worried about the political fallout if Taylor’s plan backfired. The newspapers would have a field day if the Kent Police arrested a youth on a trumped-up charge for the sole purpose of getting him to confess to a crime he didn’t commit.
Perhaps Taylor should have insisted, but he’d learnt by now that it was better to let Warde reach a decision for himself. And, in truth, he was as keen to have a day off as the Chief Constable. He caught the last train to London to spend twenty-four hours with his wife and children, and quelled any doubts that his suspects would vanish.
The news that both Blaine and Farrell had been absent from their homes since Saturday night greeted him when he arrived at Warde’s office on Monday morning. The Chief Constable was surprisingly cheerful about it. He took their flight as proof of guilt and told Taylor it was only a matter of time before they were caught.
Taylor had no such certainty. He helped draw up descriptions for the neighbouring police forces, but it was a fine example of closing the stable door after the horse had bolted. With a start of thirty-six hours, the youths had had plenty of time to disappear.
It was Taylor’s view that they’d have gone to ground in London. And he knew there was little chance of finding them in the cramped and crowded tenements of Whitechapel or Blackfriars.
With no evidence to support Taylor’s theory – and in face of Mrs Blaine’s and Mrs Farrell’s continued insistence that both youths had been at home on the day of the murder – Kent Police posted them as ‘wanted for poaching’ and kept their real reason for being interested in the pair to themselves.
The second inquest into Mrs Luard’s death was held a few days later in the George & Dragon. It ended as the first had done, without a verdict. But this time it was Henry Warde who was to blame. Convinced that Blaine and Farrell would be found, he told the Coroner that Kent Police expected to make an arrest before the week was out and asked for another delay.
A Dreadful Murder Page 6