Authors: Minette Walters
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical, #Thrillers, #Suspense
Mansfield smiled in spite of himself. ‘I was just pointing out that there is more than one answer to the Inspector’s question.’ He levered himself off the picket fence and stretched to his full height. ‘Can I leave you to remove the body? I’ll do a full post-mortem tomorrow when I’ve had some sleep.’
Warde nodded.
‘Will you take it amiss if I make another suggestion?’ the doctor added.
‘It depends what it is.’
‘Call in Scotland Yard to run this inquiry, Henry. Most of your men respect and admire the Major-General . . . if only because he’s a Justice of the Peace. It won’t do him any good if the Kent Police Force is accused of turning a blind eye to evidence that might link him to the crime.’
The Chief Constable gave a long sigh. ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘It’s a rotten situation whichever way you look at it.’
* * *
Charles Luard’s written record of where he was and what he did between 1.00 p.m. and 5.35 p.m. on Monday, 24 August 1908 – made at the request of his friend, Henry Warde:
Caroline and I sat down to lunch at one o’clock. We had cold mutton, followed by rhubarb flan and custard. I told her I needed to collect my golf clubs from Godden Green. She said she would come as far as the gate into Frankfield Park then take the footpath home.
We left the house shortly after two with Sergeant, our fox terrier. I remember Harriet, our parlourmaid, handing my wife her gloves and hat. She asked Caroline what time she expected to be back. Caroline said half past three. She also asked Harriet to remind Cook to warm the scones in the oven when Mrs Stewart arrived.
The afternoon was sunny, and Caroline and I did not walk fast. We separated at the wicket gate into Frankfield Park. The time was half past two. Caroline urged me to try for a lift home because my golf bag is heavy. She was always concerned that the weight would damage my back. That was the last time we spoke to each other.
Sergeant and I continued along Church Road then branched off towards Godden Green. I reached the Clubhouse some time between half past three and a quarter to four. I did not see anyone I knew. I collected my bag from my locker and left again for home.
Sergeant and I stayed on the main road in the hope of being offered a lift. Shortly after four o’clock, the vicar came towards us in his motor car. He was going the wrong way but he stopped for a quick chat. He explained that he had an errand to perform but agreed to pick us up on his way back.
He urged me to put my bag in his car to save me the trouble of carrying it any further. If his errand took longer than expected, he would bring the clubs to my house. However, he returned at about twenty past four and dropped Sergeant and me at Ightham Knoll
2
some five to ten minutes later.
Harriet, the maid, informed me that Mrs Stewart had arrived but that Caroline had not returned. I joined Mrs Stewart in the drawing-room and we spoke for several minutes. I was concerned that Caroline might have had a fall and suggested we set out to meet her. Mrs Stewart agreed.
We walked down the garden and took the footpath towards Frankfield Park. There was no sign of Caroline anywhere. Mrs Stewart said she had to leave because she had guests coming. I continued alone along the path.
By then I was becoming very anxious. It was well after five o’clock and I had parted from Caroline some two and a half hours earlier. If she had tripped or fallen, she had been lying untended for a long time.
I saw her as soon as I reached the clearing around the summer house. She was lying on the veranda and I rushed forward to help her. It did not occur to me that she had been shot. I assumed she had fainted or suffered some kind of stroke. When I drew closer, I saw the pallor of her face, the blood in her hair and on her cheek.
I rocked her shoulder but it was clear to me she was dead. There is no mistaking when the soul has gone. I have lived too long and seen too many soldiers die in battle.
The shock was terrible. I had no idea what to do. In all my years, I have never had to deal with such grief as I felt. I remember running towards Frankfield House, calling out for someone to help me. I have since been told that this happened at around half past five.
I believe my wife was killed for her rings. There is no other explanation that makes sense. I am as sure as I can be that Caroline did not have an enemy in the world. She was loved and admired by everyone who knew her.
The
Kent Messenger –
early edition,
Tuesday, 25 August 1908:
A Dreadful Murder at
Frankfield Park
The body of a lady was discovered yesterday on premises owned by Mr & Mrs Wilkinson of Frankfield House. Mystery surrounds the death but our reporter has learnt that the victim was Mrs Caroline Luard of Ightham. Her husband Major-General Charles Luard is a leading citizen of Kent. Scotland Yard has been called in to conduct the inquiry.
It is believed that Mrs Luard was shot during a robbery. Her purse and rings were stolen and the police are searching the county for armed vagrants.
Henry Warde met the two Scotland Yard detectives, Superintendent Albert Taylor and Constable Harold Philpott, off the train. The constable was dressed in the uniform of the London police but the Superintendent wore a brown overcoat over a dark suit.
Superintendent Taylor was a tall, good-looking, middle-aged man, who had an easy way of inspiring confidence in the people he met. He removed his soft felt hat and shook the Chief Constable’s hand. ‘Good day, sir.’
Warde had spoken to him on the telephone earlier that morning but he still felt the need to explain why he’d asked for Scotland Yard’s help. ‘I can’t be seen to take sides,’ he said, leading the two men towards his car. ‘I knew the dead woman well. Her husband’s a close friend.’
Taylor nodded. ‘You told me you didn’t think the Major-General was involved. Have your men found anything to change that view?’
‘No,’ said Warde. ‘His own account of what he did during the time she was killed has been backed up by four witnesses who saw him.’ He drew to a halt beside his Daimler and took two pieces of paper from his pocket. ‘This is Charles’s account . . . and this is what the witnesses have told us.’
The Superintendent scanned the first page before handing it to Constable Philpott. He then read the second page.
3.20 p.m. Thomas Durrand of Hall Farm saw Major-General Luard pass the farm entrance.
3.30 p.m. Peter Filey, labourer, saw Major-General Luard near Godden Green Golf Course.
3.35 p.m. The Club steward saw Major-General Luard walking up the grounds.
4.05 p.m. Reverend A. B. Cotton passed Major-General Luard in his car. He stopped and put Luard’s golf clubs in his vehicle.
4.20 p.m. Reverend Cotton gave the Major-General and his dog a lift home.
‘How far is it from where Luard left his wife at the wicket gate to this first sighting at Hall Farm?’ Taylor asked, placing his finger on the first line. ‘There’s a gap of fifty minutes . . . assuming he’s telling the truth about parting from her at half past two.’
‘A fair distance. I’d say fifty minutes is about right for a man of Charles’s age. He’s almost seventy.’
‘And there’s no question the couple left the house just after two?’
‘The maid confirmed it.’
‘Could the Major-General have reached Hall Farm by 3.20 if he’d followed his wife to the summer house first?’
Warde shook his head. ‘Not on foot . . . on a bicycle, possibly.’
‘With a dog racing along beside him,’ Taylor murmured thoughtfully. ‘That’s the bit that interests me. In some ways, Sergeant is his best alibi.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s no saying how an animal will behave. Sergeant might have tried to protect his mistress . . . become excited by the blood . . . started howling . . . refused to leave the body. Any or all of those would have caused problems. If the Major-General’s guilty, he took a big risk on the dog.’
‘And on anyone seeing him,’ Warde pointed out. ‘It was pure chance that Thomas Durrand happened to be at his farm entrance. Dog or not, it was a damn strange way to kill a wife if he wanted to get away with it. What sort of murderer admits to being the last person to see his victim alive and the first to find her dead?’
‘An idiot or a genius,’ Taylor said. ‘The simpler the story, the harder it is to disprove.’
* * *
Warde drove the two detectives to the mortuary, a small brick building next to the hospital in Sevenoaks. They found Dr Mansfield at work on the post-mortem. The three men joined him and stared gravely at Caroline Luard’s corpse.
For the sake of decency, John Mansfield had covered her body with a white sheet. He folded the cloth back to the neck to reveal Caroline’s head. ‘I’ve shaved the hair around the wounds,’ he said. ‘You can clearly see the bruise where she was struck with something heavy . . . and the bullet holes behind her right ear and in her cheek. I’m going to have to make a mess of her if you want me to dig them out.’
‘It has to be done,’ Taylor said with regret. ‘We need to know what sort of weapon was used.’
Warde looked doubtful. ‘Can you tell that from a fired bullet?’ he asked.
‘Not personally, but I know someone who can.’ Taylor took a notebook and pencil from his pocket. ‘Edwin Churchill. We’ve used him several times. He has a gunsmith business in The Strand . . . knows more about the science of shooting than any man I know. He calls it “ballistics”.’
‘How do we get hold of him?’
‘By telegram.’ The Superintendent scribbled a couple of lines and tore off the page. ‘How close is the nearest post office?’ he asked the doctor.
‘Two hundred yards up the road.’
Taylor handed the note to his constable. ‘Sign it from me and wait for an answer. If Churchill can come this afternoon, telegraph back to say we’ll meet him at the station. When we’re finished here, we’ll pick you up from the post office.’
‘Will do, sir.’
Taylor waited until the door closed then moved to the top of the table. He stooped to look at the darkened bruise on Caroline’s scalp. ‘How long does it take for something like this to develop, Doctor?’
‘Long enough for the broken veins to leak blood and fluid into the skin.’
‘But only if the victim’s alive?’
‘Indeed. The heart has to keep pumping to make a bruise as obvious as this one.’
‘So what’s your best guess on the time lag between the bang on the head and the first shot?’
Dr Mansfield shrugged. ‘A few minutes. To be honest, I’m more interested in why she was sick on the floor of the veranda. It’s possible she vomited from the shock of being struck . . . but I think it more likely she was knocked out and was sick when she started to come round.’
The doctor explained what he thought had been the sequence of events. Since Caroline had been hit from behind, she would have fallen forwards. If she was shocked but still awake, she would have thrust out her hands to break her fall. If she was knocked right out, she’d have collapsed in one movement.
‘It makes more sense that she went down in one movement,’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t have found the vomit where we did if she fell to her hands and knees first.’
‘No,’ said Taylor, picturing the scene in his mind. ‘It would have been underneath her. Her body would have covered it when she was shot.’
‘That’s my guess.’
‘And if she had been knocked out for several minutes, it would explain why the bruise had time to develop.’
‘Indeed.’ Mansfield paused. ‘The pity is she didn’t remain unconscious. She might still be alive if she hadn’t come round.’
The Superintendent from Scotland Yard was a lot sharper than Kent’s Chief Constable. It took him only a matter of seconds to follow the logic of what the doctor was saying. ‘You think that’s why she’s dead? She opened her eyes and saw her killer?’
Mansfield nodded. ‘She’d have been able to describe him . . . might even have known him by name.’
* * *
Henry Warde picked holes in the doctor’s ideas while he and Taylor sat in the Daimler, waiting for Constable Philpott to finish in the post office. There was no evidence that Caroline ever opened her eyes again, he argued. It was just as likely she was clubbed down and shot immediately.
Taylor listened to him while watching the people of Sevenoaks pass by. They seemed to have more time to pause and greet their friends than their fellows on the crowded streets of London. Signs of wealth were everywhere – in the buildings, in the number of cars on the road and in the clothes on display.
‘You’re reading too much into the doctor’s words,’ the Superintendent murmured when Warde fell silent. ‘He didn’t say she recognised her husband when she opened her eyes.’
The Chief Constable sighed. ‘Maybe not, but that’s what people will think. Charles is a crack shot, and everyone knows it. He founded the Rifle Club to teach every working man how to handle a gun in the event of war. He could have killed Caroline from a hundred yards away.’
‘In which case, she wouldn’t have the bang on her head,’ Taylor reminded him. ‘Any Tom, Dick or Harry can shoot straight when he’s right up close.’
‘It won’t stop the gossip. As one of my inspectors said last night, a dead wife usually means a guilty husband.’
‘Does the Major-General have money worries? It’s when the debts start to pile up that wives become a burden.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Warde. ‘He’s a proud man. He’d never admit to his friends that he couldn’t pay his bills. But I can’t see it. Caroline ran charities for the poor, and she used her own and Charles’s money to support them.’
‘What about another woman?’ Taylor asked, watching a pretty girl swing her long skirts from side to side as she flirted with a lad. ‘That’s always a good reason to get rid of a wife.’
Warde followed his gaze. ‘I’d be surprised,’ was all he said.