The Wickenham Murders

by Amy Myers

‘Yes. It runs to its rear, and then on to Wickenham Forstal.’

  ‘A short cut to the Manor, in other words, if you don’t want to go all the way through the village and up the drive.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘For a lady who didn’t want to waste time.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Georgia objected. ‘She’d wasted over three hours by the time she set out.’

  ‘Perhaps that was the time she’d been asked to come.’

  ‘Odd time to choose. The evening would nearly be over.’

  ‘True. Perhaps Guy Randolph, deserter, was anxious not to be seen.’

  ‘He didn’t have to be; he was in the Manor.’

  ‘But where was he spending the night? And don’t say in the denehole.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to. Perhaps he was planning to walk back to the station at that time, and suggested she accompany him.’

  ‘Through fields in the winter darkness? Very lover-like. Anyway, the Manor would have cars at its disposal. Go on, Georgia, finish the story.’

  ‘For some reason as yet unknown—’

  ‘Shame!’ Peter interrupted.

  ‘As yet unknown,’ she repeated with dignity, ‘Ada met Guy somewhere along that footpath, or went to the Manor first and was walking back home. Eleven o’clock, rightly or wrongly, seems to have been taken as the deadline for when she died. It was probably wrong, but we have to go with it. So what was Ada doing for up to an hour between the time that Davy saw her through the window and the time of her death? We can only presume she was with Guy Randolph, either at the Manor or more likely in the woods, talking. Was it raining that night?’

  ‘Don’t know, but why would Guy kill her and then leap in the denehole?’

  ‘Accident.’

  ‘You can do better than that.’

  ‘All right.’ Georgia did her best. ‘Let’s say she does meet Guy, and is horrified – yes, that’s it – when he confesses he was a deserter and even more—’

  ‘When she discovers he is married with a family.’

  ‘The upright respectable Ada is mortified and threatens . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ Peter prompted her, as she paused to think this out.

  ‘. . . to tell his family, with whom she is still in touch, that he’s still alive, where he lives and what he is.’

  ‘Problem,’ Peter immediately broke in. ‘That’s exactly why he came to Wickenham in the first place – to find his family.’

  ‘True.’ Then triumph. ‘He wouldn’t have told the Major about being a deserter. He’d say he’d had a loss of memory and so on.’

  ‘Nope. Don’t accept it. Why tell Ada the truth in that case?’

  ‘Perhaps she guessed, knowing her Guy.’

  ‘Were deserters still liable to court martial in 1929?’

  ‘Don’t know, but he might have thought so. Let’s assume their row is about his desertion, and the fact he’s married. Her threat to tell the Randolph family does not suit Guy’s book at all. Ada is no longer the sweet forgiving lass she once was; she is a woman scorned. He curses the fact that she has discovered he was here. Then it occurs to him that no one knows he’s meeting her, and all he has to do is silence her, and skip back to France.’

  ‘How’s that go?’ Peter asked cynically.

  ‘Well, it’s probably true. He told Ada not to spread the word about his return, so he wouldn’t expect her to tell anyone about their meeting. The name would mean nothing to the maid or to Rose Sadler, so only the Bloomfields would have recognized him. He had gone straight to the Manor from the train station.’

  ‘But, darling daughter, he wouldn’t have. Remember? He didn’t know the family had moved.’

  ‘The stationmaster could have told him,’ Georgia replied mutinously. ‘“Well, well, look who it isn’t. Master Guy returned from the war. Pity about the old folks selling up.” “What?” Shock, horror. He’d have to go to the Manor to find out where they’d gone.’

  ‘What about his dear little former girlfriend, Ada?’

  Georgia thought rapidly. ‘He’s not ready to face her. In fact he wouldn’t have faced her at all if it hadn’t been for her finding out and ringing the Manor, and then he took care to ensure no one saw her with him. He didn’t want to be seen, he’s a deserter and meant to be dead.’

  ‘I don’t buy the stationmaster then. Guy would have leapt over a fence to avoid being recognized.’

  ‘Accepted,’ she agreed grudgingly. ‘So he walks from the station to Hazelwood House and is told by the new occupiers that the Randolphs had left. He’s a stranger to them, of course. He then takes the quickest way over the fields to the Manor, avoiding The Firs, to find out what’s happened to his mum, dad and sister.’

  ‘I am with you, daughter mine. So what does he do after he’s realized that Ada is not taking his story at all well?’

  ‘He strangles her to prevent her talking.’

  ‘Yes. What then?’

  ‘He realizes he’s been a fool. He should just have rushed for the train and got back to France as quickly as possible. Instead, he’s left with a dead body. He drags it into the field so it’s not so obvious to the Bloomfields, who know about his visit, what has happened, then goes back to remove all traces and stumbles into the denehole by mistake.’

  ‘Well done,’ Peter said in genuine admiration. ‘A few thin patches in it, such as being back with accident again, but feasible. However, let us assume for the moment that Randolph’s death in the denehole was not an accident. It is after all unlikely, since you told me the denehole is ten yards from the path, and he would presumably have Ada’s torch if not one of his own. There wasn’t one in the denehole unless it hasn’t been found yet.’

  ‘Damn torches.’

  ‘Which would suggest Guy was pushed or killed himself? Or are we back to a maniac, who killed both of them, or to some other lover – John Sadler creeping away from the dance.’

  Georgia’s memory suddenly stirred. It must be the whisky, she thought gratefully. ‘Jean Atwater told us that Matthew Bloomfield fancied Ada – do you suppose he could have been the other lover?’

  Peter grew interested. ‘It might explain where the She-Wolf got her teeth. Okay, so produce a new story. And bear in mind you found no pathology report to help us support it either way.’

  ‘It was scorned love,’ Georgia decided. ‘Ada turned Matthew down after the war when she was still mourning Guy, so Matthew stomped off and married the She-Wolf. He found out he’d made a big mistake, and went on silently lusting after Ada. Or maybe not so silently. Then to crown his unhappiness further, back comes Guy Randolph from the dead, just as much of a dislikable rogue as he always was. Hey, he says, Ada still around? Maybe I’ll look her up. Matthew loses all control. Ada has heard the news, and rings the Manor. Matthew answers. Anguish, anguish, as he passes the phone to Guy and hears him make this appointment to meet her. He follows Guy and murders him to stop him getting Ada.’

  ‘Getting?’ Peter picked up. ‘In what sense? Rape? Seduction? In October? And then Matthew goes and strangles Ada? What for?’

  ‘Perhaps she’d seen him kill Guy.’

  ‘I’m getting tired of this word “perhaps”, and even more of “maybe”,’ Peter complained. ‘Evidence comes next. Sorry, but nothing convinces me, though I admit we’re a lot further along the road. We can agree up to the point where Ada sets off along the path to the Manor. After that, just like Ada, we’re in the dark. Another whisky, if you please.’

  *

  Georgia trod every step from Crown Lea to Wickenham Manor at least twenty times during the night. She’d get to the point where Ada could have stopped, perhaps shining her torch on the path ahead. And whom did she see? Just as she seemed on the point of finding out, she would find herself back at the beginning of the footpath. She was relieved to get up and find that all that faced her downstairs was the dirty casserole dish from last night. That she could cope with, and a vigorous scrub eradicated the last traces of beef stew, even the lurkin
g burnt gravy on the rim.

  She drew back the curtains in her living room to see a familiar unmarked police car outside Peter’s door. What on earth was Mike doing here at eight thirty? Margaret came at eight, so Peter would scarcely be up. Uneasily, she decided to investigate, as soon as she had swallowed a bowlful of cereal and a mug of tea. She relaxed when she found Mike and Peter both at breakfast, Mike looking thoroughly at home, and Margaret looking after them both.

  ‘Tea, Georgia?’ Mike offered her.

  ‘Just had some, thanks. So is this official or are you just dropping by?’

  ‘Official,’ he replied, to her surprise. ‘The Darenth Super himself is now deeply hooked on the Randolphs. He wants all your input.’

  Georgia was highly amused. This was unusual. Mostly the KCC did their best to keep him at arm’s length. Nothing personal, they assured him, but they could cope without him.

  ‘Good timing,’ she observed. ‘I’m sure Peter’s told you our triumph over getting Guy Randolph’s niece to have a buccal swab taken.’

  ‘At length,’ Mike agreed gloomily. ‘But we’re starting with Scraggs. Actually you kicked this off, Georgia,’ he continued. ‘Remember you asked me to suggest another check on his possessions for that war stuff the French folk talked about?’

  ‘I do.’ She had almost forgotten, in fact, since it seemed a forlorn hope that François had indeed walked off with anything interesting after the war, and that he would have passed it on to his grandson. In theory it sounded fine, but in practice it seemed a long shot.

  ‘The Buckinghamshire police have reported back. Scraggs’s parents had cleared the flat and taken his stuff back home, but were happy for the police to search the lot. No medals, your French chums were wrong there, but there were other little gems such as—’

  ‘A picture of Ada?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘Much better. An identity tag.’

  Peter whooped with pleasure. ‘The kind issued to soldiers in the war? They were usually in two halves, and both halves had basic info about you, number, name, etc. You took it with you into battle, and if you were killed one half stayed with you, the other went back to officially record the death.’

  ‘Right!’ Mike confirmed. ‘This one was metal and its owner—’

  ‘Guy Randolph,’ crowed Peter. ‘Hardly surprising, but it does confirm Georgia’s story about the French connection. So, if the Frogs are right, Guy left the tag behind when he came a-seeking his fortune, presumably because it was unnecessary as his family would recognize him and he planned to go back to France anyway.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ It seemed odd to Georgia though. ‘True, assuming Guy is Denehole Man, he would have come here to sort out whether he could lay his paws on any money from the family estate. His father must have been getting on, and Guy would want to get his oar in and establish his claim. Even though Hazelwood had been sold, Guy would have assumed that his parents had bought some other substantial property. Having tracked them down, he’d return to the lovely Rosanne to share his good fortune. Only he didn’t, and François found the tag later.’

  ‘Good,’ Mike said without irony. ‘Only what the Super is more interested in is Scraggs, with a view to his believing the skeleton to be Guy Randolph too, so I’m half back on the case to officially liaise with you.’

  ‘Rather late,’ Peter pointed out smugly. ‘We’ve been talking about Denehole Man and Randolph’s involvement all along.’

  ‘But you haven’t given me proof. The Super has,’ Mike said incontrovertibly. ‘Also he employs me. Right? Sometimes I think you’re under the impression you do.’

  ‘What more’s happening over Terence Scraggs’s case then?’ Peter asked hastily.

  ‘Remember those drawings we looked at, Georgia?’ Mike turned to her. ‘I told the Super about the sketch of Wickenham Manor. Didn’t you tell me Scraggs had been to see Bloomfield about a commission?’

  ‘Do you think,’ Peter broke in straight-faced, ‘that Scraggs was on to the fact that Denehole Man was murdered by a Bloomfield?’

  Not surprisingly Mike looked blank. ‘What the hell are you on about now, Peter?’

  Georgia explained, but Mike shook his head. ‘Don’t go with that. You’re telling me that old Squire Matthew murdered Guy Randolph, if that’s who it was, because he was casting an eye over Ada again. Nah. And if you’re thinking Trevor Bloomfield then bumped off Scraggs to protect the family name, no again. The Bloomfields are out of it, anyway.’

  ‘Out of what?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘Scraggs’s murder. The SIO has a split-second timetable sorted out now. They reckon it all happened in an eight-minute period between 10.46 p.m. and the arrival of the police at 10.54. The team’s compiled an analysis with evidence from Elgins, Todds and Bloomfields. It’s like a blooming labyrinth. Want to see it?’

  ‘I do. I also want a copy of it, right? Run me off one, will you, Mike? The copier’s over there.’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ Mike agreed sourly.

  ‘And of that video?’

  A pause. ‘I’ll try for you.’

  ‘Good.’ Peter held out his hand for the copy analysis and read it aloud for Georgia. ‘10.46: arrival of Todds at the Bloomfield house. Simultaneously the Bloomfield door opens and the three of them come out, father flanked by sons. They reach the Todd front line, with Scraggs far left, close into a huddle at 10.46 plus twenty, and the Elgins are sighted at 10.47; at plus ten the Elgin front line has reached the Todd/Bloomfield huddle. Scraggs by now has his back to the Elgins, wedged between the elder Bloomfield Junior, and Oliver Todd. The first lot of Elgins divides the group, with Bloomfield Senior and the younger Junior being thrust back to the outer flank, and their places filled by Todds surging forward from the rear. The other side of the group pushes Scraggs back towards the bushes, together with Bloomfield elder Junior, Oliver Todd and Lucy Todd – who scarpers. The right (from the Elgin viewpoint) flank of the Elgins is wheeling forward and round on them.

  ‘At that point the two Bloomfields nearest the house turn and run for it, that’s Trevor and Crispin. That’s vouchsafed for by plenty of both Todds and Elgins, and by 10.50 the battle is in full progress. At that point, according to the general consensus, Scraggs still had his placard, which he was waving and shouting vigorously. At 10.51 (give or take a few seconds) the placard was whisked from his hands by Bloomfield Junior the Elder with the help of young Max White, who’d charged in to tackle Oliver or Scraggs, whichever came first, and the placard was thrown down on the ground. White picks up placard to wallop Mark Todd, Oliver’s son, who’s busy attacking White’s brother Nigel. So far everyone’s agreed.

  ‘Then it gets murkier. Bloomfield Junior the Elder received a blow in the face from George Elgin, and promptly retreated from the fray. George White agrees that. At that point, front-line Elgins and Todds tentatively confirm Scraggs was still there, doing his best to ward off blows from another young Elgin, Paul White, grandson of Tom. At roughly 10.52 Paul was detached by a Todd, whose supporters closed round in front of Scraggs as the Elgins moved in to rescue their own – and presumably to duff Scraggs up some more. That was the last anyone remembers seeing Scraggs, until his body was found shortly after 10.54 by the police as the area began to clear.’

  ‘So where does that leave you? Still sorting through Elgins and Todds?’

  ‘The Super’s going for the mass screen. Another reason I’m still with the Darenth Area. It’s possible the hair we found under Scraggs’s fingernail was sticking to one of those balaclavas in the Elgin gang, while Scraggs was defending himself against a punch or the knife. There’s a trace of fibre too. Or perhaps he clutched at it as he went down.’

  Georgia was silent for a moment, reliving the scene all too vividly, then quickly brought her thoughts back to what Mike had been saying.

  She liked Mike’s ‘we found’. The idea of his large hands poring with tweezers and microscope in a forensic lab was a pleasant one. When the lab produced nothing, it was always ‘
them’, of course, not ‘we’. But then that was life.

  *

  The Medway was a peaceful sort of river, the kind that Ratty and Mole would like. The Wind in the Willows could have been written here. Even though it was wise enough to stay hidden in December, there was a powerful sense of animal and bird life thriving here. Distance was what she needed, Georgia had decided this Sunday, and Luke represented distance, as well as pleasure. Christmas was only eleven days away now, and the delicate subject of whether he spent it with them, or with his own parents or his newly married son, had either to be tackled or avoided through tacit understanding. A Sunday walk was just the answer. Georgia had plunged into ordering her turkey at the local butcher’s a week ago, but if she and Peter spent Christmas with Luke she could tuck her turkey under her arm, a la Bob Crachit, and take it with her. Only Bob’s was a goose, if she remembered her Christmas Carol correctly.

  ‘God bless us, every one,’ she observed to Luke. ‘Especially those who deal with Peter every day.’ At the moment her father was exceptionally morose. No, he would not be interested in going to Wickenham Manor or talking to the Bloomfields; no, he would not be interested in studying Guy Randolph’s army record. He deserted from it, and that was all they needed to know, apart of course from the results of Jean’s DNA. It hadn’t been fast-tracked, so with the usual delay plus Christmas intervening, they wouldn’t be hearing the result until the New Year. Until then, everything seemed to be on hold, leaving them with the usual routine of writing up notes, checking facts, and recording information received post-publication of their former books. Without yet knowing the basic thesis behind their Wickenham book, there was little point in even planning its structure.

  ‘And especially bless you, my darling.’ Luke put his arm round her as they fought the wind along the river bank.

  Georgia laughed. ‘And all publishers. How are sales going?’ She realized that she was privileged that he had taken time off at the busiest time of his year, so far as sales were concerned. Weekend or not, work came first in the Christmas rush.

  ‘Slacking off now that Christmas is nearly with us. The distributors are pleased. I’ve got the November reports in, and they’re pretty good. Up on last year.’