A Dreadful Murder (6 page)

Taylor stayed for another thirty minutes, keeping Luard company. He was shocked at how depressed the Major-General was, and he wondered why Henry Warde hadn’t done something about the hate mail earlier.

In all his years at Scotland Yard, Taylor had never seen neighbours turn so cruelly on one of their own. It made him wonder yet again what lay beneath the surface in Ightham.

* * *

Before he left, he had a quiet word with the housemaid, Jane Pugmore. She nodded when he asked her to make a list of anyone she remembered from the inquest. ‘It’ll take me an hour or two,’ she told him. ‘You’ll have to call back this afternoon.’

Taylor nodded.

‘I heard what some of the women said when they were leaving,’ she went on. ‘That they only came to see the house.’

He eyed her curiously. ‘None of them had been here before?’

Jane looked scornful. ‘They weren’t the type that Mrs Luard entertained. And if you ask me, they shouldn’t have been allowed at the inquest either.’

‘It’s a public event. Anyone has the right to attend.’

‘Not if it’s to revel in a lady’s death, they don’t. I wouldn’t mind so much if they’d listened to what was said instead of making up so-called evidence afterwards. A man can’t be in two places at the same time . . . though you wouldn’t think it to hear the nonsense that’s being talked in the village.’

‘What sort of nonsense?’

‘
Every
sort,’ she said crossly. ‘It makes me so mad. They whisper behind their hands when they see me coming. But not one of them has ever asked me what
I
think.’

‘And what’s that, Jane?’

She glanced towards the drawing-room door. ‘The Major-General’s lost without his wife. He’d have died in her place if he could.’

* * *

Taylor’s next visit was to a friend of Caroline Luard’s. He had spoken to most of the others – with little success – but Mrs Anderson had been absent the first time he tried to see her. Taylor wouldn’t have gone back if she hadn’t written to Henry Warde, urging him to send a policeman to speak to her.

Like Mary Stewart, she lived in a house overlooking the village green. But that was as far as the likeness between the two women went. Sarah Anderson was sixty-five and had no time for women who threw fainting fits. She was short and stocky, didn’t wear corsets, and spoke her mind in a forthright manner.

She pointed to a chair when Taylor was shown into her sitting-room. ‘Sit down,’ she said briskly, ‘and tell me how I can help. If I understood Mary Stewart correctly, in between her fainting fits, you asked her for the names of ne’er-do-wells that Caroline met through her charity work.’

Taylor was amused by her bluntness. ‘It’s one line of inquiry,’ he explained. ‘We can’t discount that her killer might have been a local man.’

‘If you listen to the gossip on the streets of Ightham, the local man was Caroline’s husband, Charles. They say he shot her because he was having an affair with a woman in the village.’

‘But you don’t agree?’

‘Hardly! Charles would never do anything so vulgar as to murder his wife. He’s a typical Army officer . . . likes to conform and follow the rules.’

‘What about having an affair?’

Mrs Anderson gave a small laugh. ‘Same answer. He’s too afraid of scandal to go running after bits of skirt in his own back garden.’

Taylor smiled at her choice of words. ‘So where did the rumours come from?’

‘It’s a good question. I asked my parlourmaid if she’d ever heard them before Caroline died, and she said no. They seem to have grown out of this absurd belief that Charles was the killer. Without a reason for why he might want to shoot his wife, people have invented one.’

Taylor watched her for a moment. ‘It’s quite a witch hunt that’s been whipped up against him. Have you any idea who started it?’

She shook her head. ‘You’ll have to go to the pubs for that. My servants tell me they talk about nothing else in the George & Dragon.’

‘And they all think the Major-General’s guilty?’

‘As far as I can tell.’ She paused. ‘It’s his own fault. He turned up his nose at the common people and left Caroline to deal with them. Now they’ve turned
her
into a saint and
him
into the devil.’

‘Was she a saint?’

‘Of course not. She was as snobbish as he is.’

‘But knew better how to hide it?’

‘Indeed.’ Sarah Anderson stood up and went to a desk in the corner of the room. ‘I’ve made a list of families who fall into the sort of group I think you’re looking for. They come from a wide area. In most cases, the wives have been abandoned to bring up their children alone . . . but the last two have husbands who become violent when they drink.’

Taylor read the names and addresses. One of the families came from Ightham but the rest were in nearby villages like Stone Street or Borough Green. ‘Have you noticed any of these people acting oddly since the murder, Mrs Anderson?’

‘In what way?’

‘Out of character . . . different from normal.’

She shook her head. ‘They’re always on their best behaviour with me. It’s the only way they can be sure of getting money.’

Taylor folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. ‘They should be grateful you’re keeping them out of the workhouse.’

Mrs Anderson gave a dry smile. ‘Do you think so, Superintendent? For myself, I don’t enjoy watching hard-pressed women bow and scrape just to put food in their children’s mouths. We should have found a way by now to give the poor a little dignity instead of asking them to beg.’

No one turned to look at Taylor as he walked into the dimly lit saloon bar of the George & Dragon. But he didn’t doubt the other customers were aware of his presence and knew who he was. Within minutes, most of what they said was being aimed at him.

There were too many comments about the police turning a blind eye to ‘a certain person’ and the murder inquiry being a ‘farce’. Several times, the Chief Constable was referred to as a rich man’s ‘stooge’ and the police as ‘useless’.

Taylor folded his felt hat and tucked it into his pocket, giving a friendly nod to the landlord. He ordered a pint and leant on the bar while the man pulled his beer. ‘Did any of your customers attend the first inquest?’ he asked.

‘What if they did?’

Taylor shrugged amiably. ‘They’d know the Major-General has an alibi for the time of his wife’s death.’

The landlord glared at him, clearly on the side of his customers. ‘No one believes it.’

Taylor took a sip of beer. ‘So who’s the loudmouth in the corner? He seems to have a down on anyone connected to the case.’

The landlord flicked a cloth across the bar. ‘John Farrell. He’s only saying what he believes. Nothing wrong with that.’

‘Until he incites a lynch mob to hang the Major-General from the nearest tree,’ Taylor replied, flicking a glance at the big man who was holding court at the far table. Whenever he spoke, the lesser men around him listened. ‘What’s his problem with Luard? Why is he so hostile?’

‘Same as the rest of us . . . reckons the old brute is getting away with murder.’

‘Except brutality doesn’t come out of nowhere. Did the Major-General make a habit of assaulting his wife? Does he beat his servants when they annoy him?’

A hush fell over the room as if the other drinkers had decided to listen. The landlord shrugged. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘No,’ Taylor agreed. ‘They seem quite fond of him. It makes you wonder what his wife could have done that made him angry enough to shoot her.’

‘He was bored with her.’

Taylor used his finger to wipe a trickle of froth from the side of his glass. ‘But why blow her brains out so close to home?’ he asked mildly. ‘If he’d waited a few days until they were on holiday, he could have pushed her off a cliff. Everyone would have believed it was an accident.’

There was a brief silence before John Farrell’s voice broke in from the corner. ‘He wouldn’t have had the Chief Constable’s help in any other county.’

With a lazy smile, Taylor turned towards him. ‘If that were true, I wouldn’t be here, Mr Farrell,’ he said. ‘You can’t have it both ways. If Henry Warde was trying to protect his friend, he wouldn’t have called in Scotland Yard.’

The man spat on the floor. ‘You don’t know your arse from your elbow, mate. If you did, you’d have arrested the old bugger by now.’

His words were greeted with a snigger by the other men at his table.

Taylor eyed him for a moment then took out his tobacco pouch and calmly rolled a cigarette. ‘It’s quite a campaign you’ve got going against the Major-General,’ he murmured, running the edge of the paper across his tongue. ‘Did you start it or are you just mouthing someone else’s ideas?’

‘None of your business. It’s a free country. I can say what I like when I like.’

Taylor lit a match and held it to the tip of his cigarette. ‘Even when you’re wrong? What if I say
you
killed Mrs Luard and you’re putting the blame on the Major-General to avoid being hanged yourself?’

‘You’d get my fist in your face.’

Taylor shook out the match and flipped it onto the counter. ‘You have a bad temper, my friend. Do you lash out at everyone who annoys you?’

‘I don’t take lip if that’s what you mean. No man does.’ Farrell dropped a wink at one of his friends. ‘Except for the nancy boys at Scotland Yard who think they’re the cat’s bloody whiskers in their smart coats and pretty hats.’

Taylor blew a smoke ring into the air. ‘You’re a big man. I doubt you’re challenged very often.’

‘That’s the truth of it. Do you fancy your chances?’

Taylor shook his head. ‘I see too much violence in my job . . . and it’s usually aimed at women. The only way a stupid man can control his wife is by using her as a punchbag. We see a lot of that in the poorer parts of London.’

Farrell’s face turned a dark red. ‘What are you implying?’

‘That the most likely type to have killed Mrs Luard is a drunken brute who makes a habit of beating women. He enjoys the power it gives him to see the fear in their eyes.’ Taylor smiled slightly. ‘Would you say that’s a good description of Major-General Luard?’

The question was greeted with silence.

Taylor pulled his hat from his pocket and pushed out the crown before placing it on his head. ‘Give my regards to your wife and ask her to expect me later today. Shall we say five o’clock? I need to talk to you in private, Mr Farrell.’

The man looked uneasy. ‘Why?’

‘You seem to know so much about Mrs Luard’s murder.’ He tipped the brim of his hat to the other men at the table. ‘I’ll be calling on you all in the next few days, gentlemen. We can’t hold a second inquest until we have all the facts.’

As he left, he was amused by the sounds of dismay that broke out behind him. He trod out his cigarette and double-checked the last name on Sarah Anderson’s list. ‘
John Farrell
,’ she’d written in neat handwriting. ‘
He punches his wife and children when he’s drunk.
’

* * *

Taylor tapped on the tradesmen’s entrance to Ightham Knoll because he didn’t want to disturb Charles Luard again. Jane Pugmore, the housemaid, let him in and took him to the kitchen, where Cook and Harriet Huish, the parlourmaid, were still red-eyed from weeping.

Cook showed him the Major-General’s uneaten lunch. ‘He’s hardly touched his food since Mrs Luard died,’ she said. ‘He’s that low, he’s making himself ill.’ She picked up the plate and made to scrape the contents into a slop bucket.

Taylor put his hand on her arm. ‘Don’t waste it,’ he begged. ‘I haven’t had a decent meal since I arrived in Kent.’

The three women threw up their arms in horror and bustled around to take his coat and lay a place for him at the table. Jane pressed the Superintendent into a chair and gave him the list she’d made of people who had attended the first inquest. It was much longer than Sarah Anderson’s and, while he ate, Taylor asked the three women to mark which of the names would be most likely to write poison pen letters.

He was surprised at how easy they found it to agree. They picked only women, and the comments they made while they did it told him why. ‘Bitter old spinster’ . . . ‘guzzles sherry in secret’ . . . ‘jealous as sin’ . . . ‘man-hater’ . . .

One or two were ladies who claimed to have been friends of Caroline Luard, but most were what Jane Pugmore described scornfully as the lower middle class. ‘They think they’re above us servants,’ she told Taylor, ‘but it eats away at them that they’re not in the Major-General’s league.’

He ran his finger down the page. ‘I wonder why poison pen letters are usually written by women,’ he murmured.

‘Because they marry husbands they don’t like and spend the rest of their lives picking fault with them,’ said Cook bluntly. ‘It turns them nasty.’

‘So why marry them in the first place?’

‘To give themselves airs and graces. The man who owns the shop that sells the cabbages is higher up the ladder than the one who grows them . . . which is what their fathers did.’ Cook poured water into the sink. ‘Most of the cats on that list are no better than I am, but you wouldn’t think it from the way they look down their noses at me.’

It was the second time in three hours that Taylor had heard a woman express discontent about the way her society worked. Yet he wondered if either of them would have voiced her thoughts out loud before Caroline Luard’s murder.

Had Caroline’s friend, Sarah Anderson, always wanted dignity for the poor? Or was it the shock of her friend’s death that had set her thinking about the divide between the classes? Had Cook always resented women who married above themselves? Or was she simply trying to account for the hate mail that kept dropping through the letter box?

It seemed to Superintendent Taylor that Ightham’s sleepy calm had been ripped apart by a couple of gunshots. As if a close-knit family had turned on itself because no one believed the victim had been killed by an outsider. Instead of peace, there was war. Instead of mutual support, there was suspicion.

‘Could it have been someone from round here who killed Mrs Luard?’ he asked.