The Bockhampton Road Murders

by Pat Herbert

  “I’ll tell you, my dear. I think both you and Martha should hear this.”

  Martha, in the act of picking up the full tray, put it down again, “Sir?”

  “Yes, Martha, you must hear this, too. Please be seated.”

  Both women sat and looked at him expectantly. “Get on with it,” said Edith, unable to conceal her annoyance. Who did he think he was? Tthe Pope? Sitting there, pontificating.

  “Are you listening?” He seemed oblivious to Edith’s ire this morning. In a funny sort of way, this made her respect him a little bit. Not much, just a little bit. He usually bowed to her wishes without a murmur, apart from increasing her allowance, of course. That was where he put his foot down. Heavily. He began to read from the paper.

  “Scotland Yard has issued a warning to young women in the South London area to be on their guard for a man in his early to mid-thirties who has been accosting women and ingratiating himself with them. These women are usually personable in appearance and of marriageable age. The police do not wish to unduly alarm the public, but it is believed this man, who uses several aliases, lures his victims to secluded trysting places and then strangles them. Three such murders have so far been identified as the work of this man. He is described as tall, with dark hair and eyes, and is considered by female witnesses to be uncommonly handsome in appearance. This man was last seen in the Clapham area on Sunday night. Anyone knowing the true identity or the current whereabouts of this gentleman should contact the police immediately. He should, on no account, be approached directly as he is considered highly dangerous.”

  “There,” he said. “I thought you ought to know about this. I’m sure you are both sensible enough not to be taken in by this man, but it is best to be forewarned.”

  Edith looked at Martha and Martha looked at Edith. They both had a secret admirer who answered to this man’s description. Pure coincidence, of course, thought Edith. There were many men who could fit the man the police were looking for. Abraham was tall, dark and handsome, true. But he was no strangler of women, of that she was sure. The idea was preposterous.

  Dr Lomax folded his paper and tucked it under his arm as he stood up to leave. “So, just be careful. If either of you are approached by any gentlemen answering to this description, you should notify the police at once. I suggest neither of you goes out unaccompanied, for the time being at least.”

  “Excuse me,” said Edith indignantly. “Do you expect me to accompany Martha on her shopping trips? I’m not a servant!”

  “I just think it would be wise for neither of you to venture out alone at the moment. You are both very pretty, and I’m sure would attract the attention of a man such as this. Now I must be going.” He kissed his wife lightly on the cheek and went to the front door. There on the doorstep was Mrs Proudfoot, brandishing the morning paper.

  “’Ave you seen this about a young man going round strangling women?” she asked him without preamble. “I’ve seen a man like that ’anging around your ’ouse several times.”

  “Indeed?” said Herbert dismissively. He obviously wasn’t taking her seriously, knowing what a notorious gossip she was. He turned to Edith and Martha, who stood in the hallway giggling behind their hands like a couple of schoolgirls. He raised his eyebrows at them and turned back to Mrs Proudfoot.

  “Now, come along, Elsie,” he said, in the familiar tone he used when treating her bunions, “you mustn’t start rumours. You will make everyone frightened to go out at all.”

  He closed the front door and marched her down the path. “Good day,” he said, raising his hat. It was clearly the end of the matter as far as Herbert Lomax was concerned. Edith and Martha continued to follow events from the front room window, united in their glee at seeing poor Mrs Proudfoot taken down a peg. They watched her, and she seemed stunned for a moment, then slowly walk back to her own front door.

  “That’s settled her hash,” declared Edith with relish. “Now, Martha, do get on with the washing up. Then take the children to the park. They need to expend their energy. Can’t you hear the noise they’re making?”

  They both listened to the hysterical screams and laughter of Edith’s two lively daughters as their little feet padded up and down the nursery floor.

  “Yes, madam,” said Martha, returning to her kitchen domain. Edith smiled to herself. Although she didn’t much like her pretty servant, possibly because she was too pretty, she had to acknowledge she was useful. Very useful where the children were concerned. Now she had to make herself presentable. Time was pressing.

  She preened herself in the mirror. Yes, all was well. Her skin was glowing, and her eyes were glittering. No man with red blood in his veins would be able to resist her.

  She could hear Martha chastising the children as they went out of the front door with a clatter. She made a final inventory of her face and hair, then stood to fetch her parasol and gloves. Five minutes later, she was walking down Bockhampton Road on her way to the park and Abraham Smollett.

  It was another sunny day, so the park would be busy. That suited her fine. She thought about the man wanted by the police for killing young women. It wasn’t Abraham, of course, but it didn’t do to take any chances. Even in the unlikely event that he was a murderer, it didn’t daunt her spirit in the slightest. It made her even more anxious to meet him, if anything. It was the danger and excitement she craved. You never knew, she thought, if he was the killer, she could expose him and then she’d be famous. The police would probably give her a medal.

  Thinking these thoughts, she paused outside the newsagent’s a few yards from the park. She took a newspaper from the rack and searched through it until she found what she was looking for. It was exactly as her husband had said. Only he hadn’t read it all out to her. Her heart skipped a couple of beats when she read the name ‘Abraham Smollett’. There it was in black and white.

  Maybe she didn’t want him to be the murderer after all. The theory was sound but, in practice, she wouldn’t have a clue how to deal with him. She put the paper back in the rack with a shaking hand.

  “So you’ve read it and now don’t intend to buy it, I suppose? I have to make a living you know.” The little bald-headed newsagent was at her elbow, looking very cross.

  She looked down at him, aware there was an aggravating buzz at her elbow. “I beg your pardon?” she said. “Were you addressing me?”

  “I can’t see anyone else here, can you?” he retorted.

  “Oh, do be quiet, you annoying little man,” said Edith, not in the least bothered by his threatening tone and manner. After all, she’d been consorting with a mass murderer, so a scrawny under-sized tradesman held little fears for her. She pushed him aside, ignoring his protests, and flounced off down the high street without a backward glance.

  The newsagent went back into his shop muttering under his breath that he wasn’t a public lending library. Edith, however, was well out of earshot.

  Sweeping on down the street, she felt her heart pounding nineteen to the dozen. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, believe her Abraham was a cold-blooded killer. The thought that the man she was about to meet might be contemplating adding her to his list of victims gave her palpitations. How could he deceive her so? She slowed her footsteps as she reached the park gates. Every fibre of her being was urging her to go in and face him. But, with every step, her bravado deserted her a little further. Did she really intend to meet him?

  Whether she did or not, she simply had to. Of course, he would deny it. Say it was some other Abraham Smollett. It was possible, she supposed, but not very likely. It wasn’t a common name. Except wasn’t there an author called that? Oh no, that was Tobias Smollett, she then remembered. His books, like everything else, had bored her.

  Very well, Mr Abraham Smollett, she thought entering the park, you’ll have to work hard to convince me you’re not a murderer. Maybe that feather boa she had her eye on in the haberdashers would be a start. Then a slap-up meal in the West End wouldn’t go amiss, not just a cup of tea
in the local tea shop. She’d had enough of that. Times would have to change to convince her not to hand Abraham Smollett over to the police.

  

  She arrived at their appointed rendezvous by the bandstand a few minutes late. The band had not yet arrived, but there were plenty of people sauntering by. Her eyes scanned the crowds for Abraham but there was no sign of him. Usually, he was the first to arrive but today, he was nowhere to be seen. Although she was annoyed by his tardiness, she was also rather relieved as it gave her time to focus her thoughts more clearly.

  Perhaps she had known all along he was too good to be true, she just hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself. There had been odd times when his manner had iced over slightly, but these momentary flashes hadn’t registered. Until now.

  She had read, along with everyone else, about the salacious murders in the East End several years earlier. Some maniac had been going around in a leather apron and funny hat cutting up prostitutes. She had enjoyed reading all the gory details as they had become known, but she didn’t equate these with real life. To her, Jack the Ripper was just sensationalist fiction, nothing more. The poor women who had been his victims wouldn’t have seen it her way, of course, but, really, thought Edith Lomax, if they put themselves about in the way they did, then they deserved all they got.

  The church clock chimed one o’clock, and she realised her beau was now an hour overdue. She began to suspect he was avoiding her. He would have seen that morning’s newspaper article, of course, and had probably absconded altogether.

  But where would he have gone? She didn’t even know where he lived or, come to that, his real name.

  At two o’clock she came to the obvious conclusion her lover wasn’t going to keep their tryst. The sun bore down on her parasol as she walked up and down past the bandstand for the umpteenth time. The band had now arrived and was setting up their instruments. One of the musicians caught her eye and winked. She feigned indignation and turned abruptly on her heel. But it cheered her, nonetheless. There were other fish in the sea besides Abraham Smollett or whatever his name was.

  

  As she let herself into number 57 Bockhampton Road, she saw her daughters listening at the parlour door. As soon as they saw her, they ran up the stairs as fast as their little legs would carry them. She opened her mouth to admonish them for making such a clatter but thought better of it. Why, she wondered, were they so interested in what was behind the closed parlour door? Was Martha up to something? Perhaps entertaining some rough young man who had taken her fancy? If so, she would teach her a lesson she’d never forget.

  With this in mind, and the non-appearance of Abraham still rankling, she strode towards the parlour and reached for the door knob.

  7

  Martha sat at her mistress’s dressing table, trying the various perfumes arrayed there. She had taken the children to the park that morning as instructed, but their delight at playing on the swings had been cut short. Usually, she had time for Jemima and Georgina, but not today. There was a more pressing engagement pending and she ignored their protests as she dragged them, protesting, homewards.

  “Now, then,” she had said crossly as they re-entered 57 Bockhampton Road. “Just you behave yourselves and stop whining. If you’re good, I’ll take you back to the park this afternoon.”

  That had shut them up, thank goodness. Now that both Edith and the kids were out of the way, she could attend to the matter in hand. A little dab of madam’s perfume would do nicely, she thought, helping herself. That would set her off a treat. For Martha was expecting a gentleman caller in half-an-hour. And not just any old gentleman caller, either. Oh no. A real gentleman. A handsome, immaculately dressed individual who was going to marry her and make her into a lady. He didn’t know it yet, but that’s what she had planned for him. She pinched her cheeks to bring out their rosy flush and sprayed some more perfume behind her ears. Yes, she thought with satisfaction, that’ll do.

  Giles Fortescue had caught her eye one day while she was waiting outside the butcher’s to be served. He had sauntered by and raised his hat to her. She hadn’t been so conceited to think the greeting was for her. After all, she didn’t know the man from Adam. But, it soon became clear she was the one he was addressing, and his eyes had danced with amusement. She had been so astonished that such an obvious gentleman would notice her, it had taken her some time to believe her luck.

  “Pardon me,” he had said. “I just had to say hello. You looked so pretty standing there, waiting patiently.” Even though she was a mere servant, dressed in mere servant’s clothes, she had her pride and dignity. She, just like any other lady, deserved to be treated with respect and not accosted in so forward a manner. But she had soon succumbed to the man’s charm and had allowed him to escort her home. He had even carried her shopping basket for her.

  Today he was coming to call on her in her own home. Well, it was her home as much as the Lomax’s, wasn’t it? She was allowed gentleman callers as long as they were kept in the kitchen and didn’t overstay their welcome. That was the rule. Up until Giles Fortescue came on the scene, the only person who could be even vaguely described as a ‘gentleman caller’ had been Joshua Corbett, the butcher’s boy. But she was finished with butchers’ boys now. And wouldn’t her mistress be jealous when she met Giles? That’d show Mrs Edith High-and-Mighty Lomax.

  She finished pinning up her abundant brown hair into a more elaborate style than usual and gave herself a final admiring glance in her mistress’s bedroom mirror.

  Just then, the children ran into the room. “Why, you look ever so pretty! Better than Mama,” said Jemima.

  Georgina touched Martha’s hair delicately. “Don’t you look a picture? I wish you were our mama,” said the littlest Lomax.

  “Now then, girls. That’s enough! I told you to keep to your room. Now, if you promise to be good, I’ll buy you an ice cream each when we go to the park later.”

  “Ooh goody!” said little Georgina, clapping her hands.

  Jemima, however, seemed less delighted. “Should you be in Mama’s room?” she asked. “Should you be using her scent?”

  “It’s just a little dab, I’m sure she won’t mind.” She was having difficulty resisting slapping the child.

  “So, you won’t mind if I tell her then?” said Jemima, a knowing look on her face.

  If ever the devil incarnate materialised in a child, that child was Jemima Lomax, or so thought Martha at that moment. “Well, I don’t think we need tell ’er, do we dear? Let it be our little secret, eh?”

  “What will you give me then?”

  A blackmailer! And not even six yet. “I said I’d buy you an ice cream,” said Martha, standing up and nudging them both out of the bedroom.

  “I want more than that. I saw a skipping rope in the toy shop yesterday. It’s ever so much better than the one I’ve got.”

  Martha kept her rising temper under control with some difficulty. She supposed she could just about afford to buy it for the little brat, as if she had any choice. But she’d get her come-uppance one day soon. When she was Mrs Fortescue, she’d be able to buy as many skipping ropes as would make a nice noose for the sweet little child.

  

  “That’s got rid of them at last!” thought Martha, as she listened to them arguing over the rocking horse as usual. Now, she must go and prepare some tea and put the cakes in the oven in readiness for her visitor. She would see what china she could find that would impress him.

  The tea was in the pot and the cakes were on the silver cake stand when the doorbell rang. She resisted the temptation to run to the door, smoothing her hair and pinching her cheeks once more. Then, gliding elegantly along the passage, she opened the door to Mr Giles Fortescue.

  The sunlight was in her eyes as she gazed up at the tall figure on the doorstep. Shielding her eyes, she smiled at the handsome gentleman who smiled back at her, displaying unnaturally white teeth. Funny, thought Martha, she’d never noticed how white his teeth w
ere before. They looked almost false.

  “Please, to come in, Mr Fortescue,” she said shyly, almost curtseying, but stopping herself just in time. She reminded herself she was meeting him on the same social footing today. There was no Edith Lomax to put her in her place.

  “Giles, please. How many times do I have to ask you to call me by my Christian name? After all, you know me well enough by now, don’t you, my dear?”

  “Sorry, Giles. I’ve laid out the tea in the parlour.”

  She led him along the passage, looking up to see the two girls leaning over the banister, their eyes bulging with curiosity. “Get back to your room, you bad girls!” she said angrily. “I’m not to be disturbed while my friend is here.”

  Giles winked at the girls, much to their delight. “Please, my dear Martha, I don’t mind the little ones. And so pretty, too.”

  Martha couldn’t help feeling annoyed at his attention being diverted by the Lomax children. “They’re a bit of an ’andful, though,” she told him. “Their mother, my mistress, don’t look after them properly. She leaves them with me most of the time.”

  “I am sorry to hear it,” he said.

  “The master is good to them, though.” She smiled as she thought of Dr Lomax reading them bedtime stories.

  “That is as it should be,” smiled Giles as they entered the parlour. “They are lucky to have you, too, Martha.”

  “Do sit down, Mr – er, Giles,” she said, blushing coyly.

  He did as he was told, hitching up his trousers to reveal shiny white spats and intricately designed sock suspenders. She was both fascinated and embarrassed at seeing such intimate male apparel, and her hand shook as she held the tea strainer over his cup. The lid of the teapot rattled as she poured.

  8

  The late August weather had brought with it a promise of autumn, so Martha had banked up the parlour fire. Giles Fortescue watched it as it blazed and crackled in the grate, the flames reflecting off the trumpeting angels that adorned the side panels of the fireplace. For the first time in a long while, he felt content.