by Pat Herbert
“Come in, Mrs Proudfoot,” he said. “Something very tragic has happened here. We need your help. I don’t know what to do. My little girls.... My wife has gone.... I – I....”
He swayed against the wall as Mrs Proudfoot waddled through the front door. She managed to prop him up before he collapsed altogether. “Come on, doc. Don’t give way. Let’s see what we can do. The world ain’t come to an end.”
“Oh yes, Mrs Proudfoot,” he muttered. “I think you’ll find it definitely has.”
11
The carnage Elsie Proudfoot witnessed on entering the parlour of number 57 Bockhampton Road rendered her almost speechless, a condition she had rarely suffered from in all her forty-four years. What she had expected to find was the body of the handsome young man she had seen loitering outside number 57 on several occasions. She had seen him being let in by Martha earlier that day, so it wasn’t hard for her to put two and two together. But, on seeing not one, but three, bodies, and two of them the lovely Lomax daughters lying in their own blood, even Mrs Proudfoot was lost for words. She prided herself on being a woman of the world and took most things in her stride. But there were limits and, for Elsie Proudfoot, on seeing the dead bodies of the little Lomax children, she had reached those limits.
“Where’s your good lady wife, Doc?” she asked, once her power of speech had fully returned.
Dr Lomax shook his head, seemingly robbed of all his wits. Martha was at his elbow, resting her hand on his arm in a proprietorial manner which did not go unnoticed by their gimlet-eyed next-door neighbour.
“Will someone tell me what’s ’appened ’ere?” Elsie realised, with a certain amount of glee, she was going to have to take charge of the situation.
At first, neither Herbert nor Martha were making much sense to her, but gradually she began to piece together what each of them was telling her.
“So, you, Doc, ’ave come ’ome to find these dead bodies?” She shied away from mentioning the two little ones by name. “And you, Martha, you was a witness and saw Mrs Lomax do this lot in?”
“I – I saw it all, Mrs Proudfoot. You need to call the police right away. They need to find Mrs Lomax –”
Elsie Proudfoot stared at Martha now. She was a pretty little thing, but she wasn’t as innocent as she painted herself, she could bet her last penny on that. “But, missy,” she said, “I saw you. I saw you let that man there on the ’earthrug in the front door this morning.”
Martha didn’t seem abashed by this statement, even though Herbert was eyeing her with suspicion now. “What are you saying, Mrs Proudfoot?” he asked her.
“She’s right, sir,” said Martha meekly. “’E was my gentleman caller. I’m allowed to ’ave them. You said so. And she was jealous. Mrs Lomax was jealous, that’s why she killed ’im.”
Elsie realised she had been put in her place by this whippersnapper of a servant girl. Defy her would she? She’d see about that. “I’ve seen that same man there going about with Mrs Lomax. You saying ’e was going about with you, too, girl?”
Martha, for answer, gave her a glare. If Elsie had had X-ray eyes, she would have seen the rude gesture she was making with her fingers behind her back.
Herbert broke in now, seemingly in charge of his faculties once more. “I think I begin to see what’s happened. I suspect that man is the one the police are looking for. Edith killed him because she found out who he was.” He looked almost happy for a moment.
“But what about your poor kids?” pointed out Mrs Proudfoot.
“He killed them, so she killed him,” said Herbert without hesitation.
“That’s not what ’appened,” whined Martha.
“Well, we shall see, missy, shan’t we?” said Elsie. “Now, if you ain’t got no objection, Doc, I think I’d better fetch the police.”
Sergeant Jack Cobb stroked his moustache thoughtfully. He had been called to 57 Bockhampton Road the evening before and, although he was an experienced copper, the carnage he found in that house surpassed almost anything he had witnessed before. And his experienced and jaundiced eyes had been party to most of the dreadful things that people were capable of.
The man of the house, Dr Lomax, had seemed genuinely distraught. According to that hussy of a parlour maid, he hadn’t been on the scene when the murders took place, but she had. And, according to Miss Finch, it was her mistress, the doctor’s wife, who was responsible for the murders. Naturally, she’d disappeared without trace, so there was no gainsaying the parlour maid’s version of events. A search operation had been mounted at once, but Sergeant Cobb was not hopeful of finding her. How could a mother murder her own children in cold blood? It beggared belief.
Cobb had made short work of his interview with Mrs Proudfoot. A well-meaning body, but hearsay and gossip were no use in a matter as serious as this. Dr Lomax was still waiting to be interviewed, as Martha Finch sat before him now. He looked at his only witness as she sat there demurely, butter daring not to melt in that impudent little mouth. He knew her type, he had her number, all right. All fluttering eyelashes and innocent smiles, but underneath a ruthless streak buttoned down until such time as it was needed. He didn’t entirely blame the Martha Finch of this world. They had to survive somehow, he supposed. Attack was the best form of defence for people like her.
There was no way to know if she was telling the truth, but it seemed Edith Lomax was implicated simply by not being there to answer questions. But, like all good coppers, he was keeping an open mind.
“Now, Martha. I want the truth now. You’re telling me that your mistress killed her lover and then her children because they wouldn’t stop screaming? And then she ran away? Have I got that right?”
“Yes, sir. It’s the truth, more’s the pity.”
“So can you tell me what you think made her do these awful things, Martha?”
“Jealousy, plain and simple.” Martha stared straight into Sergeant Cobb’s eyes. There was defiance in her attitude, daring him to contradict her.
“Jealousy? To kill her own children? She was jealous of her own children?”
“No, ’course not. I meant she was jealous of ’er lover and me.”
“Now, Martha, you know that we have established the identity of the dead man, don’t you?”
She seemed disinclined to answer his question, looking everywhere around the little interview room but at her interlocutor’s face. “Do I?” she said at last.
“He was George Arthur Hayter, alias Abraham Smollett, alias Giles Fortescue et cetera, et cetera. He was responsible for killing three women and would certainly have gone on to murder again.”
Martha was looking down at her hands in her lap. There was still a trace of blood on them, despite the application of carbolic soap. “All I know is, she told me ’e ’ad been keeping company with ’er. ’E wasn’t, ’cos ’e was keeping company with me and was gonna marry me.”
“He may have married you, Miss Finch,” said Cobb, “but I wouldn’t have given you much chance of survival if you displeased him in any way.”
“What d’you mean? I wouldn’t ’ave displeased ’im ’cos ’e loved me.”
“Very well, we’ll let that pass for now.” Sergeant Cobb felt sorry for the girl. So desperate was she to believe George Arthur Hayter would have married her, she wasn’t going to admit he was the notorious woman strangler of Clapham. Not for all the tea in China.
“Let us return to Mrs Lomax. You assert that she killed this man you say you were to marry through jealousy and then killed her children because they wouldn’t stop screaming?”
“That’s what I said,” said Martha, her expression sullen, marring her looks for a moment. “It’s the God’s ’onest truth, so ’elp me.”
He looked at her closely. He was sure she was lying, but without Mrs Lomax to deny it, there was nothing to be done but get her statement written up and signed. Where it would take him was another matter.
Dr Herbert Lomax looked
a sorry sight. Red-eyed and unshaven, Sergeant Cobb had no doubt he was suffering deeply. The loss of his daughters and the possibility (remote, in Cobb’s opinion) that his wife had murdered them would have broken the spirit of the hardest of men. And Lomax, Cobb could see, wasn’t the hardest of men. Far from it.
“I’m sorry to have to put you through all this, Dr Lomax. But I need to get at the true facts,” said Cobb, giving Herbert an encouraging smile. “Can you tell me what happened when you arrived home yesterday evening?”
“It was just like any other evening,” Herbert Lomax replied. “I got home about six and – no – it wasn’t quite like any other evening.” Cobb watched as the bereaved doctor seemed to be struggling with a recollection.
“Take your time,” he said kindly. “There’s no hurry.”
“Well, as I said, it was just like any other evening, only Martha, our parlour maid, was sitting on the stairs when I came through the front door. She was crying and I could see blood on her clothes.”
Cobb poured him some water and noticed the man’s hand shake as he picked up the glass. It took Herbert a long time to recount what he had witnessed, as the good policeman allowed him to break off every time he saw the doctor getting too emotional.
“Thank you, Dr Lomax,” said Cobb finally. “We will need you to sign your statement before you go.”
“All right,” said Herbert, getting unsteadily to his feet.
“Have you no idea where your wife could have gone?” Cobb asked, collecting up the notes he had just made.
“Well, her family live in Wimbledon. She may have gone there, I suppose....” said Herbert, sitting down again. The effort to stand had evidently been too much for him.
“She isn’t there. We’ve already tried. We got the address from your neighbour, Mrs Proudfoot.”
“Oh, I see. Then, I don’t really know. I can’t imagine what she is doing for money. I gave her the week’s housekeeping yesterday, but that won’t last for long....”
“No. Do you have any idea at all where else she could have gone? Any other relations or close friends? We really must find her – as much for her sake as anything.”
“I told you, I don’t know. I would tell you if I did. She – my wife – wasn’t someone who made friends easily.”
Cobb could see Herbert hadn’t enjoyed admitting this. To Cobb, though, this Edith Lomax sounded like a fascinating creature, and he sincerely hoped he would meet her soon. For all sorts of reasons but, included among them, the chance to thank her for ridding the world of a psychotic killer.
“Make no mistake, Sergeant,” said Herbert quickly, “I love my wife. But I know her faults, and murdering little children isn’t one of them.”
“Let’s hope we find her soon,” said Cobb, standing up. “Until she can answer for herself, this case is far from closed. Now if you would be good enough to wait there, I will get these notes in some semblance of order so that you can sign them.”
“All right,” said Herbert. He looked resigned sitting there, but, Sergeant Cobb supposed, sitting in a police station was probably infinitely preferable to sitting by his own fireside after what had happened there.
12
Sergeant Cobb closed the file with a sigh. The triple murders in 57 Bockhampton Road had occupied his mind and actions for almost three months with little result. A countrywide search for Edith Lomax had proved fruitless; it was as if she had vanished from the face of the earth. Scotland Yard had been called in but, so far, even the best brains and resources of that establishment hadn’t managed to find her either.
Cobb had fallen in love with her shadow. He was both repelled and attracted by her. He stared at the photograph which had fallen out of the file. It was a head and shoulders portrait of a very beautiful young woman. The face of an angel? Definitely. The heart of a devil? Possibly.
Then there was that parlour maid, Martha Finch. He couldn’t rid himself of the feeling she wasn’t all she seemed. There wasn’t anything he could put his finger on. To all intents and purposes she was what she appeared to be. A young parlour maid, serving her master and mistress faithfully and caring for their children. What could be wrong with that? Except – what? Whatever was bothering him about the girl, he realised it amounted to plain dislike. But there was something else about her that was nagging away at him. It was his copper’s nose, his intuition. He didn’t trust her. He didn’t believe a single word that came out of her mouth.
On the other hand, he liked Dr Lomax the more he saw of him. The poor chap was heartbroken and clearly having trouble holding on to his wits. There was no possibility that he had carried out the murders. So that brought him back to Edith Lomax. Until she was found, the jigsaw would remain unfinished. Edith was all the blue bits of sky that obstinately wouldn’t fit together.
The theory at Scotland Yard was that, filled with remorse, she had drowned herself. To that end, they had dragged the local reservoir, being the handiest place for a would-be suicide. No body was found, however. A couple of old perambulators and a cast-iron sink were all they could come up with. Cobb wasn’t convinced by this theory, anyway. He was convinced she was still alive. But where?
Her parents hadn’t heard from her and now, of course, did not wish to hear from her ever again. The last he heard was that Edith’s mother was continually reaching for the smelling salts, her middle-class existence blighted forever. So much for parental love, thought Cobb. At least the legal system assumed a person was innocent until proven guilty.
What a world we live in, thought Cobb, as he put the case file away, carefully returning Edith’s photo to it as he did so. The ‘unsolved’ stamp was ready to hand, but he still refrained from using it. He would give it a few more weeks. You never knew when something would turn up. And as long as it wasn’t Edith’s toes, he wouldn’t give up looking for her.
Herbert Lomax looked across the dining table at Martha as she laid out his cutlery for the evening meal and dutifully placed a steaming plate of food in front of him. What was it? he wondered. All food tasted the same to him these days, or rather of nothing. No matter how tasty the dish, he could have been eating ashes for all he knew or cared.
Martha did her best, poor girl. What she must have suffered, he thought. Seeing his wife go berserk with the fireside poker and murdering his innocent darlings. He had tried not to believe her capable of such atrocity, but the longer she stayed away, the more he could only assume the worst. He had ignored Martha’s continued assertions that she was the guilty party for as long as he could, but what else was he to think? It was beyond all endurance to go on believing in her innocence. The fact that she had been unfaithful to him didn’t help, of course. If she was capable of such deceit, wasn’t she just as capable of murder? The two seemed to go hand in hand in Lomax’s view.
“Sir?” Martha interrupted his thoughts.
“Sorry, Martha? Were you saying something?”
“I just asked you if you would like some bread and butter, sir.”
“Oh, no thanks, Martha. And please, take this plate away. I can’t eat it.”
“Oh, but sir, I made it ‘specially nice for you. A stew to build you up. You’ll be wasting away if you ain’t careful.”
“That will suit me fine, Martha. I don’t see the point of carrying on anyway.”
“But your patients need you, sir. What will they do if you don’t look after them?”
“Dr Greaves is quite capable of dealing with them. They prefer him now, anyway. They don’t need me. Nobody needs me.”
“But, sir, life ’as to go on....”
“Has it?”
Without another word, Martha removed his untouched plate and took it to the kitchen. After she had disposed of it, she took the apple pie out of the oven. It was done to a turn and smelt delicious. She cut him a generous slice and smothered it in piping hot custard. Herbert’s stomach turned over at the sight of it.
“I’m sorry, Martha, but I can’t eat anything at the mom
ent. Please take it away and bring me the brandy.”
Martha did as she was bid, placing the decanter and glass beside his chair in front of the fire. The evenings were decidedly chilly now that winter was taking hold, and she had got a friendly fire going. He sat there, gazing into the flames, as she poured him a generous tot.
“’Ere, sir. This’ll cheer your cockles,” she said, handing him the glass.
Herbert took it from her and, as he did so, his hand accidentally brushed hers. Something snapped inside him, something he had kept coiled up but ready to spring at the slightest touch. And that touch was Martha’s. He started to weep copiously. As she put her soft arms around him, he let the coil unwind as fast as it could and he sobbed his heart out.
13
Martha, tears streaming down her face, watched him as he took her blood pressure with calm, professional precision.
“There’s no doubt about it, Martha. I’m sorry, but you are going to have a baby,” said Herbert Lomax, looking at her with a serious expression. He knew it was hard for unmarried mothers to be told such news, but he didn’t feel sorry for her, only for himself. He was about to lose a good servant girl.
“But, I ain’t been with no one – except you.”
He coughed to hide his embarrassment. “We shouldn’t have done it. I don’t blame you, I should have had more control.” He really should have, he thought. But he had been at such a low ebb that evening.
“Well, we did and now I’m up a gum tree.” She tapped her belly, which already looked rounder and plumper.
“You are lying to me, Martha,” he said, more assertive now. He knew the ground he was on was firm enough. “I’m not the father of your child, Martha.”
“But you must be. I never done it with no one else!”