The Murder Book Read online

  She caught her mother looking at her, the expression on her round, sun-reddened face so sad and so strained that it tore at Helen’s soul.

  ‘Don’t, Ma. Please. I can’t bear it.’

  Silent, the older woman nodded and turned away and Helen followed her, back to the rhythm of the dolly tub, the turn of the mangle, the ache in her arms and the lump of solid pain in the middle of her back. Helen found she welcomed it all. It helped to drown out the silent scream of agony that raged inside her, squeezing her heart until she fancied the blood could no longer flow and she would die from the constriction of it.

  They worked until late afternoon and then her mother set her to getting the evening meal for their menfolk. It was early to be about this task, Helen knew. They’d taken bread and cheese with them up to the fields to keep them going through the day and would not be back for supper until it grew too dark to work. She was, though, grateful for the distraction.

  Her mother left her in the kitchen and went through into the little parlour. Helen heard her open the front door and knew that, as she had done earlier, she was staring out at the empty road.

  For a little while there was quiet in the house, broken only by the familiar clatter of pots and plates. A slight breeze blew through from the open door and Helen was glad of it. The day had been so hot, so dry. Later, she thought, there would be rain.

  ‘Helen,’ her mother called to her, softly, anxiously and Helen froze. She knew the reason for it.

  She left her task and joined her mother at the door, grateful for the hand, roughened by washing and still cool from the water, that enclosed hers.

  ‘Oh, Ma.’

  The dogs had returned, coming in through the village rather than back across the fields. Less exuberant now, even their great appetite for hunting and sniffing and running satiated. The handler, too, looked worn by the day, limping along behind the pack. Only Johnstone seemed untouched by the exertions, striding before them, his shoulders square and his back straight. His face was set as hard as granite.

  ‘They didn’t find him,’ Helen breathed softly. ‘Ma, they didn’t find him.’

  ‘Come away inside,’ her mother said, pushing her gently but firmly out of sight. Johnstone’s cold gaze fixed on her as she glanced back his way and, despite the heat of the warm summer evening, she shivered.

  Johnstone paused at the cottage door.

  ‘You didn’t find him, then.’

  ‘But I will. You can tell your girl not to rejoice too much. I set myself tasks and I fulfil those tasks. I complete them. You may be sure; he’ll not get away from me.’

  FORTY-TWO

  Mickey Hitchens wondered how his boss was doing out in Thoresway village. A gypsy village, he’d been told when he had asked about it in the King’s Head bar the night before. He doubted it would be long before news of this new murder was all over the district. He knew that news in country areas travelled surprisingly fast.

  Mickey liked to walk when he was thinking; the simple mechanical act of putting one foot in front of the other seemed to free up his brain and he was mulling over what little they had achieved so far in the murder of Mary Fields and the other two members of her family. In the first days after they had arrived in Louth the local papers had been full of the news, the Lincolnshire Echo declaring that this was something you would have expected to be happening only in Grimsby or Boston, and the local newspaper, the Louth Standard practically proclaiming that the world was at an end and that justice must be done. Both had now fallen quiet and moved on to other events, and Mickey could not help but wonder if that was due to the influence of men like Inspector Carrington, who had made it very plain that this was not the kind of thing the town should be known for and that such headlines were upsetting its more respectable cohort.

  Mickey despised such hypocrisy; the same hypocrisy that had led to Henry Johnstone being called to attend what was evidently considered a much more important murder. Mickey knew, because Constable Parkin had told him, that Carrington had been furious that he had not accompanied Henry but had chosen to continue with the investigation in Louth. Mickey also knew that Carrington had telephoned Scotland Yard and insisted that the pair of them be removed. He gathered that he’d been given short shrift.

  It was not uncommon for local police to resent their presence, to feel that it undermined their authority or called their skills into question, but it had been a while since he and Henry had run into such blatant opposition, particularly as Carrington was responsible for them being there in the first place. Mickey was wondering what had happened that now made Carrington so anxious. What pressure had been put on him and from where? Who was upset by their investigation? The names Fry and May came to mind.

  It was now six o’clock and the church bells were ringing to announce the end of evensong, though Mickey was not quite sure which church they were calling from. As he turned the corner he ran into a group of people dressed in their Sunday best who were headed out of St Mary’s and now seemed to be on their way to the outskirts of town to enjoy the calm summer evening. Mickey was of a mind to follow them anyway, having nothing better to do, but what really decided it for him was catching a glimpse of a man he was sure was George Fields also headed in the same direction. The man was a little ahead, and while he could not be absolutely sure, the clothes and the slightly heavy shouldered gait, head thrust forward, looked to be the same that he had noticed before.

  A little further on Mickey realized where they were headed when he saw a sign for Hubbard’s Hills. He had been told this was a local beauty spot, donated to the town some decades before by one Auguste Alphonse Pahud and which was now a popular Sunday walk.

  He followed the knots of people down Crowtree Lane, through a kissing gate and then on to a rough path. It was certainly a pretty place, Mickey thought as he continued to wander, keeping his eyes open for George Fields and whoever George Fields was interested in. Mickey was not of a mind that George was just here for a Sunday stroll.

  A little stream ran through the bottom of the valley, hills climbing on either side with more level areas that would be good for picnicking and a great many trees. Stepping stones crossed the stream and children played, running back and forth across them while their parents gossiped and others set out picnics. The women wore soft summer pastels and shady hats while the men dressed in lighter jackets and panamas. It was a mixed crowd, Mickey noticed. Those more well-to-do and those for whom Sunday was obviously the one day of the week when they had time off and whose Sunday best had most likely been their Sunday best for a decade. It seemed to Mickey that the two groups studiously ignored one another, apart from one man. George Fields stood in the shade of a small clump of trees and appeared to be watching one particular party with great attention.

  Mickey circled up behind him and stood for a few moments watching what George was watching before he spoke.

  ‘And who might they be?’ Mickey asked.

  George jumped then turned, his face reddened and angry and his fists raised before he realized who Mickey was.

  ‘No need for that,’ Mickey said. ‘I was just curious, George, as to what brought you up here on a sunny Sunday evening.’

  George turned away from him, his attention returning to the group of picnickers who sat in the shade of another clump of trees.

  ‘Me and Mary – we did our courting here. Then we used to bring our Ruby up here – sometimes bring a picnic too. Though it were never as grand as theirs.’

  Mickey looked at the picnic being laid out on a tartan blanket. Food had been removed from wicker baskets and hampers and for the first time he noticed that there were servants in attendance; they must have come up before and brought the supper.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose it would have been. The likes of you and me, we don’t get to go on picnics like that. We bring our sandwiches in a paper bag and our tea in a thermos and if we are lucky we might have a nip of something in a flask.’

  George glanced at him as thoug
h uncertain whether or not Mickey was being patronizing. It appeared that Mickey was not.

  ‘So who are they, then?’

  ‘It’s the Mays,’ George said.

  ‘Business partner to Mr Fry?’

  ‘That’ll be the one.’

  ‘So what’s your interest in them? Was he seeing your Mary?’

  For a moment George said nothing and then he nodded. ‘Reckoned he was. Mebbe. Walter says he thought he’d seen him hanging around but he couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘Didn’t mention him in the letters, though, did he?’

  ‘No. And I’ll want those back.’

  ‘And you’ll be getting them, I promise. So why follow them up here? You planning on harassing the man? I really would have you for breach of the peace then.’

  ‘Just wanted to see what the bastard looked like,’ George said.

  ‘If you don’t know what he looked like then how do you know it’s him?’

  ‘For one thing I got someone to point him out to me, and for another thing that’s his wife in the blue, sitting with Fry’s wife, the one in the pink, and there’s Fry just coming up now, see?’

  Mickey looked to see where George had indicated and indeed spotted Mr Edmund Fry making his way up to the group. In addition to the wives there was an older couple and another woman and four children running around, skipping back and forth across the stepping stones.

  ‘George, you’d best come away with me now,’ Mickey said. ‘Let’s the two of us go and have a drink and put our heads together over this one. I’ll buy you a pint and you’ll do the talking.’

  George didn’t move.

  ‘It’s either that or I get you arrested here and now.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘Like I said before, I see it as preventive action. Now put your sensible head on and come with me. A pint on a sunny evening – what could be better?’

  ‘Problem with that round here,’ George said. ‘Local bylaws – no pubs open.’

  ‘No, but the hotel will be. The King’s Head isn’t the Wheatsheaf but it still serves a decent pint.’

  Reluctantly George Fields turned and followed Mickey back down the little path and into town.

  FORTY-THREE

  Contrary to expectations, Ethan had not headed for the coast but turned back inland. His first intention had been to get aboard ship in either Grimsby or Immingham but eventually he thought better of that. They would be looking for him there; his description would have been sent out and there was a very good chance he’d be picked up. He had started on a journey now and he wasn’t about to stop and get sent back to the hangman’s rope. He needed to get away, to put as much distance between himself and anybody that might know him as was possible. And that meant going somewhere else. That meant looking for work and passage to a place a long way from here.

  It crossed his mind that it would be easier to get work somewhere like Liverpool and he was not deterred by the fact that this meant crossing an entire country. He’d sailed out of Liverpool before and knew that the sheer scale of the place gave him a better chance of either finding someone to take him with few questions asked or of sneaking aboard and hiding until they were well out to sea. He knew the way this worked; stowaways were usually just made to labour for their passage and although they would be threatened with being handed over to the authorities the next time a ship reached port, in practice that was rarely enforced.

  Anyway, Ethan decided that he didn’t have much choice in the matter.

  He had tried to remember if a photograph of him existed. Of the people in the village only the schoolteacher and the vicar owned a camera. And Miss Elizabeth. Before Ethan had left to go to sea she had been given this very expensive gift for her tenth birthday and had delighted in going round the fields and the village, taking photographs of everyone she could persuade to pose for her. Ethan remembered that he’d been photographed at the harvest festival that year, along with most of the other young men and women in the village, but he’d never seen the image and didn’t know if Miss Elizabeth had even managed to print her photographs. It was a risk but not one he could do anything about.

  That aside, any description put out for him would have been so general as to fit many other men of his age. He was of average height and build and the only unusual thing about Ethan was that, despite having dark hair, his eyes were blue, an anomaly that appealed to Helen and which cropped up in the family from time to time. But he doubted that would really set him apart. He hoped not anyway.

  And so, Ethan walked. And walked and walked some more.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Edmund Fry had spotted George Fields as he’d walked up towards his friends and he quietly pointed this out to May. The two men watched as George strolled away with Sergeant Hitchens.

  ‘Has he arrested him?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it, old man,’ May responded.

  ‘So what the hell do they want?’

  ‘Edmund, don’t be such a bore. What are you two gossiping about? You look like a couple of maiden aunts with your heads together like that.’

  ‘Just business, dear. And I’m sorry – we shouldn’t be discussing that on a Sunday. Particularly not in such delightful company.’ He took a glass from his wife and a plate of food from the maid and leant back against the bole of a tree, stretching out his long legs.

  ‘I thought I saw that poor man a moment ago,’ Celia May said.

  ‘What poor man, dear?’ Delia Fry asked her.

  ‘You know, the one who came home to find his wife and child murdered. Mrs Henderson pointed him out to me one day in the marketplace. Mr Henderson, you know he’s a magistrate, and the man was up in front of him for punching a police officer. Would you believe it? They let him off with a fine because the police officer was kind enough to say that the poor man had suffered enough.’

  ‘Henderson is too soft,’ Fry declared.

  ‘Edmund, I’m quite sure he’s not. I’m sure he was just showing a little compassion.’

  ‘Compassion should be shown to those who deserve it.’

  ‘The man had just lost his wife and child. To violence.’

  ‘And a woman who lived the way that she lived, well, sooner or later violence was bound to find her.’

  ‘But the child,’ Celia insisted. ‘She can’t be blamed for the way her mother lived.’

  ‘If you ask me it probably spared the child much future pain.’ May drained his glass.

  ‘What on earth can you mean?’

  ‘I mean, dear girl, that the apple never falls far from the tree. It would only have been a matter of time before the child was as corrupt as the mother.’

  Celia look shocked. ‘You can be such a hard, cruel man.’

  ‘I’m just a realist. These traits get passed down the generations and there is nothing the likes of you or I can do about it. It’s only a surprise that it wasn’t the husband himself who killed her. In his place, who could have blamed him?’

  The children chose that moment to come running back and the conversation shifted in a more suitable direction. May poured himself more wine and smiled at his sons.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Henry had arranged for the body of Robert Hanson to be removed to Louth where a proper post-mortem could take place. Elijah Hanson had been in great opposition to this and so had the boy’s mother. It seemed to them like a final insult that he should be cut open and examined when it was very clear what had killed him.

  Henry himself decided that he would return to Louth as well; there was little to keep him there and the investigation would be better served once they had news, as Henry was sure they would have soon, from the dockyard police.

  Before he left, Ted Hanson having promised to drive him back, he went to the Samuels’ cottage on Red Row with the intention of examining any possessions Ethan might have left behind.

  Dar Samuels let him in and invited him to take a seat at the table. The cottage was sparsely furnished with a scrubbed table, four w
ooden chairs and an old dresser that looked as though it was built into the cottage itself. On the dresser were plates and cups and glass jars filled with dried beans and lentils and flour. There were flowers in another jar and Henry was reminded of Mary Fields’ house and the flowers on the mantelpiece.

  Cooking was evidently done over the fire and a Dutch oven sat on the hearth. Henry had seen poverty in town but it seemed to him that here he could be stepping back fifty or a hundred years and only the clothing the occupants wore would have changed. There were candles on the mantelpiece and one paraffin lamp. A stack of newspapers sat beside the hearth.

  ‘You like to keep abreast of the news, Mr Samuels?’

  Dar frowned. ‘When I can. Ted … Hanson, he’s good enough to keep me supplied. He’s a good lad is Ted.’

  ‘Not like his brother,’ Henry said.

  Dar gave him no reply. Instead he sent the children to play outside and took a seat opposite Henry Johnstone. His wife stood close by the door, almost as though she wanted to escape from him and would rather have been sent outside with her young ones.

  ‘Do you have a photograph of your son?’ Henry asked though he knew it was a stupid question.

  ‘Do we look like a family that can own a camera?’ Dar asked him impatiently.

  ‘No, I’m sorry. It was a foolish thing to ask. I should have asked if you knew of one existing.’

  ‘Mr Thompson, the schoolteacher, bought a camera some years back and he took a class photo. I think Ethan was probably in that but he’d have been no more than nine or ten.’

  Henry nodded. ‘I’d like to see where your son sleeps,’ he said. ‘See if there’re any belongings he might have left behind.’

  ‘He sleeps up in the children’s room. The wife and I have the other. You can go up and look but you’ll find nothing. There’s two old shirts and a couple of collars that he wore on Sundays when he needed to look respectable but that’s all you’ll find. Everything else he owned he was wearing or he carried in his pack. But that was little enough. We are not folk who own things, Inspector.’