A Dreadful Murder (3 page)

Constable Philpott rejoined them with news that the gun expert would be catching the five o’clock train. Chief Constable Warde suggested they visit Charles Luard next but London’s Superintendent Taylor shook his head. He needed to get a ‘feel’ for where the crime took place before he spoke to the victim’s husband. He also wanted to see the wicket gate into Frankfield Park and follow the route the Major-General said he had taken to Godden Green Golf Club.

The boss from Scotland Yard ruled out walking the footpath to the summer house. On orders from
his
bosses in London, Taylor had sent for bloodhounds to sniff out the escape route that Mrs Luard’s killer might have taken. But he had few hopes the dogs would succeed. With only the scents from the veranda to go by, the chances were high that the animals would simply retrace Caroline’s tracks back to the road.

Chief Constable Warde headed his Daimler in the direction of Ightham, turning off onto Church Road before they reached the village. He paused briefly beside the wicket gate then drove to Godden Green, passing Hall Farm on the way.

‘It’s a long walk for a seventy-year-old,’ Taylor said. ‘Was he really planning to make the return trip with a golf bag on his shoulder?’

‘He’d have had no choice if the vicar hadn’t given him a lift.’ Warde stopped the Daimler at the side of the golf course. ‘He still had to walk across these grounds to the Clubhouse . . . and that’s no mean distance either.’

‘He must be a fitter man than I am.’

‘You’ll have to add another couple of miles if he followed Caroline to the summer house. He’d have been running most of the way.’

‘It doesn’t seem likely,’ Taylor agreed.

‘You’ll doubt it even more when you meet him,’ Warde said. ‘I’ve never seen a man so broken by his wife’s death.’

The Superintendent eyed him for a moment. ‘Perhaps it was the way she was killed that upset him,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he hadn’t expected it to be so brutal.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘He may have hired someone to do it for him while he created an excuse, an alibi, for himself.’

‘Is that a serious suggestion?’

Taylor shrugged. ‘He was the only one other than Mrs Luard who knew where she’d be yesterday afternoon.’

* * *

The three policemen reached the summer house by driving to Frankfield House and walking down the long lawn to the woodland at the bottom of the garden. Warde pointed out where the gardeners, James Wickham and Walter Harding, had been working when Charles had burst from the trees calling for help.

If the truth be told, Taylor was a little offended by the size of the summer house, La Casa. It was large enough to house four or five families in the poorer parts of London. He viewed it as a rich man’s plaything.

Two Kent policemen stood on guard in front of it. They were there to prevent the curious gawping at where murder had been done. They saluted smartly as the Chief Constable and the Scotland Yard detectives approached.

‘Any trouble?’ Warde asked.

‘We’ve turned a few visitors away, sir. It’s the blood they want to see.’

‘Just morbid folk,’ said Warde with a grunt of disgust. ‘Did you take their names?’

‘I’ve made a list. They were mostly youngsters from Ightham. I’ll have words with their parents later.’

‘Have the dogs arrived?’ Taylor asked.

‘About an hour ago, sir. They headed off in that direction.’ The man pointed towards the path leading to Church Road. ‘I told their handler it was the way Mrs Luard must have come, and he said it was probably her scent they were following.’

Taylor nodded. ‘It was always going to be a long shot. At least we’re free to go where we like now.’ He pointed to the gate in the veranda fence. ‘Is that where Mrs Luard entered?’

‘Must have been,’ Warde said. ‘It’s the only way in.’ He led the detectives across the grass. ‘You can see where she was lying. She hadn’t even reached the door before she was hit.’

Taylor examined the ground in front of the steps. ‘The earth’s quite soft. Did you look for footprints?’

‘Yes, but there were too many to pick out the culprit’s. We found some of Caroline’s smaller ones in places . . . but Charles, Wickham and Harding walked or ran over this patch several times. Some of my men crossed it too.’

‘What about the paths?’

‘Same problem. They’ve taken a lot of traffic. The doctor and I came from Church Road, and Inspector Hamble brought his team from Ightham.’

Taylor walked a good twenty yards in the direction Caroline had come from. If she’d been running away from a pursuer, her prints would have been far apart and her heels would have dug into the ground. He found one or two indentations in the grass that were small enough to be made by a woman, but nothing to indicate a frightened run.

He returned to Warde. ‘How did you remove the body?’

‘By stretcher to Ightham Knoll. I called for an ambulance from there to take it to Sevenoaks.’

‘Ightham Knoll being Mrs Luard’s home?’

‘Yes. It seemed better than causing a stir amongst the staff in Frankfield House. We were able to take her straight upstairs to her bedroom.’

‘Did the Major-General spend any time with her alone?’

‘No. He and I sat in the drawing-room until the transport arrived. I urged him to write that account you’ve read. He made his goodbyes to her when she left.’

Inwardly, Taylor was cursing the Chief Constable for waiting twelve hours to call him. Scotland Yard had modern views about how to conduct a murder inquiry, and they did not include trampling the ground around a murder scene or taking the victim back to her own house.

Taylor, now a Scotland Yard Superintendent, had been a fresh-faced constable in 1888 when Jack the Ripper had prowled the streets of Whitechapel. And if that monster had taught the police anything, it was to be careful with the evidence. How much easier his job would be now, he thought, if Warde had had the sense to summon him before the body had been removed.

Instead, he had to rely on the other man’s memory, and try to picture the scene for himself. ‘How was she lying?’

‘On her front. Her head was where the bloodstains are.’

‘And which way was she facing?’

‘Feet towards the gate . . . head towards the summer house door.’

Taylor mounted the steps and examined the stains on the wooden floor. ‘There’s not much blood. She must have died from the first shot. I wonder why the killer gambled on a second one.’

‘How was it a gamble?’

‘Noise,’ said Taylor, glancing across the glade towards Frankfield House. ‘He should have been afraid of being heard.’ He stepped around the bloodstains to peer through one of the windows into the summer house. ‘When do you think the rings were taken from Mrs Luard’s fingers?’

‘After she was dead?’

Taylor tested the door to see if it was locked. ‘We’re talking about a killer who’d just unleashed a couple of loud gunshots . . . had no idea if anyone had heard them . . . and chose to squat calmly in his victim’s blood to wrestle a glove off her hand. Does that seem likely to you?’

‘Not when you put it like that.’

‘I’m guessing he ran like the devil in case his escape route was cut off.’ Taylor took a last look at where Caroline had fallen. ‘I think the doctor’s right. She was knocked unconscious and the rings were taken before she was shot.’

Warde began to look more cheerful. ‘If theft was the motive, we can rule out Charles.’

Taylor gave a regretful shake of his head. ‘Not if it was part of his murder plan.’ He stepped off the veranda. ‘But why make her death so noisy? She was at her killer’s mercy. He could have strangled her or beaten her to death.’

* * *

As Henry Warde drove towards Ightham, Taylor found himself more and more persuaded by Dr Mansfield’s version of events. If the aim had been to murder the woman, why not grab her from behind and run a knife across her throat? As long as she died quietly, her killer had all the time in the world to take whatever he wanted.

And why two shots? Taylor thought of how bodies twitched and moved after they were dead, and wondered if panic had played a part. He could easily imagine the sudden flap of a hand spooking an already frightened man into shooting again. If so, the murder was the work of a novice rather than a hired killer or a retired soldier.

He spoke his next thoughts aloud. ‘Whoever did it wasn’t at work yesterday . . . unless the killer is one of the gardeners in Frankfield Park.’

‘They operate in pairs and they’ve all been vouched for.’ Warde shook his head. ‘A jobless vagrant
has
to be the most likely suspect. Nothing else makes sense.’

Taylor watched through the windscreen of the car as some houses came into view. ‘What sort of crimes do you have in Kent?’ he asked.

‘Pickpocketing . . . house burglary . . . minor thefts from shops . . . poaching. Nothing like Caroline’s murder.’

‘And you always know where to look for your thieves?’

Warde gave a grunt of amusement. ‘We have our share of ne’er-do-wells if that’s what you mean.’

Taylor gazed out of the window as the Daimler cruised down Ightham High Street. Medieval half-timbered houses lined the road and they looked as expensive as anything he’d seen in Sevenoaks. ‘How many of your ne’er-do-wells live here?’ he asked.

Warde’s amusement grew. ‘This isn’t a London slum, Superintendent. It’s one of the oldest and most desirable villages in Kent.’

Taylor smiled. ‘On the surface,’ he agreed, ‘but there must be some desperate people here too.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Mrs Luard would have had nothing to fill her days if she hadn’t had her charity work to keep her busy.’

Henry Warde had described the Major-General as ‘broken’ by his wife’s death and that was certainly how he seemed to Taylor. The custom of the times was that men controlled themselves. It was only women who wept for the people they loved. Yet tears were coursing freely down Charles Luard’s cheeks.

Far from the fit old man who had walked five or six miles the day before, Taylor was faced with a frail shadow. The Major-General’s hands shook with constant tremors and his face was drawn with grief.

They sat in the drawing-room at Ightham Knoll. There were reminders of Mrs Luard everywhere. Her portrait as a young woman on the wall. Flowers on the table. Cushions, scented with lavender. Pretty china on the sideboard. Photographs.

Henry Warde clearly had no idea how to deal with his friend. He stood with his back to the room, staring out towards the garden. He muttered phrases like, ‘Come on, old chap, a few deep breaths should do the trick.’ Or, ‘There’s no point giving way like this. Nothing’s going to bring her back.’

But Taylor took a different tack. Thicker-skinned than the Chief Constable – and not so convinced that the Major-General’s grief was real – he parked himself on a chair and leaned forward, staring into the old man’s face.

It wasn’t long before Luard became uneasy and regained some control. ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked. ‘I wrote an account for Henry last night.’

Taylor began with simple questions. How long had the Major-General and Mrs Luard been married? How long had they lived at Ightham Knoll? Did they have children? Was Mrs Luard liked in the village?

He learnt that the couple had had two sons – both in the Army – but the younger had died on service in Africa in 1903. That Charles and Caroline had lived at Ightham Knoll for twenty years. That Caroline had a wide circle of friends and was known, and admired, for her kindness and her work with the poor.

In sudden despair, the Major-General placed his head in his hands. ‘She never harmed anyone,’ he cried. ‘Who would want to kill her?’

‘That’s what we’re here to find out, sir. From what you’ve said, she had no enemies in Ightham.’

‘Or anywhere else. How could she? We spent our days together. There was nothing I didn’t know about her life.’

Taylor doubted that. Most women kept secrets from their husbands, if only how much they paid for their hats. ‘What about you, sir? Do you have any enemies?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Someone may have thought that killing Mrs Luard was an easier revenge than killing you. A lady alone has no defence.’ Taylor watched him for a moment. ‘You’re a Justice of the Peace. Have you ever received threats from men you’ve sent to prison?’

‘Only in court. Most of them feel their sentences are unfair.’ Charles raised his head, his face haggard with guilt. ‘Are you saying this was my fault? Should I have warned her?’

‘No, sir. I’m just running through possible motives.’

‘Her rings and purse were stolen. Isn’t that motive enough?’

‘Perhaps,’ Taylor agreed. ‘But Dr Mansfield says she was stunned by a blow to the back of the head first. And a thief had no need to kill her if she was unable to fight back.’

Charles looked blank. ‘The doctor must be wrong.’

‘I’m afraid not, sir. He believes your wife was knocked out for several minutes before she was shot. We’re guessing that’s when her rings were taken . . . either because theft was the aim or because that’s what the culprit wanted us to think.’

He was watching the Major-General’s face closely. If Luard had planned his wife’s death, he was hoping to see a reaction: a flicker of alarm because the doctor and detectives were on the right track – or a flicker of relief because they weren’t.

‘You talk as if this man was sane,’ Charles said, raising his hands in futile protest. ‘But no sane person would have done this.’

‘I wish I could agree with you. Sadly, in my job, you learn very quickly that sane men can be far more brutal than lunatics.’

The old man’s eyes welled with tears. ‘My wife wouldn’t have refused him money, you know. She was a very Christian person. All he had to do was ask.’

‘What if she knew he didn’t deserve her help? The world is full of husbands who take every penny their wives receive to spend on drink. If he was a local man she might have come across him through her charity work. How would Mrs Luard have reacted if someone like that had asked her for money?’