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Authors: Minette Walters
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through some notes.
Taylor propped his shoulder against the wall. ‘Anything new?’ he asked.
The Inspector shook his head. ‘What about your end?’
‘I don’t know yet.’ Taylor took Sarah Anderson’s list from his pocket and placed it on the desk. ‘Have you come across any of these families?’
The other man glanced at the names. ‘Every copper in the district knows them.’
‘For what?’
‘Drunk and disorderly . . . petty theft . . . trespass . . . vandalism. They take up more police time than everyone else round here put together. Why are you interested?’
‘Whoever shot Mrs Luard probably has a history of criminal behaviour. It’s a big step from honest citizen to ruthless murderer.’
The Inspector gave a dry laugh. ‘Unless she was killed by a jealous husband who also happens to be a Justice of the Peace.’
Taylor shook his head. ‘There’d still be a history. The Major-General would have given her a black eye every time she tried to lock him out of her bedroom.’
Hamble placed his hand on the list. ‘There are some bad apples here but I can’t see any of them shooting Mrs Luard. They wouldn’t have dared. Country folk have more respect for their betters than city dwellers.’
Taylor moved to the window. Dusk was falling quickly but he could see a little knot of serving girls, hurrying to buy bread before the baker closed for the night. Here and there, flickering candles shone through ground-floor windows. In the gathering darkness he might have been looking at a street in the East End.
‘What if a woman like Mrs Luard was murdered in Hyde Park, George? Where do you think we’d be looking for her murderer? Out here in the wilds of Kent or somewhere in London?’
‘London.’
‘Even closer. We’d be looking for people who lived and worked in the Hyde Park area. Criminals tend to operate close to home because they know the best escape routes.’
‘Our man had two and a half hours to disappear.’
‘Maybe so, but don’t you find it odd that a stranger managed to enter and leave Frankfield Park without being seen? How did he get there? On foot? On a bicycle? Which direction did he come from? Several people saw the Major-General but no one remembers a stranger.’
‘No one remembers the people on this list either.’
‘How do you know?’ Taylor turned from the window. ‘Has anyone even been asked that question?’
Chapter Eleven
Saturday, 5 September 1908 –
Stone Street, morning
Saturday morning broke cold and clear, and the Scotland Yard detectives put on extra vests to travel by pony and trap. They planned to start in the village of Stone Street before moving on to Borough Green and the other places beyond Ightham.
Kent’s police chief, Henry Warde, had refused the London visitors the use of his Daimler because it was too well known. Asking questions of the poor and needy was Superintendent Taylor’s line of inquiry. If Scotland Yard came up with anything, Kent Police would take the credit. If they didn’t, Warde would deny that the poor had ever been his target.
Stone Street was a smaller village than Ightham, clustered on the southern border of Frankfield Park. For that reason the people who lived there were of interest to Taylor. In particular, one family on Sarah Anderson’s list.
‘
Mrs Blaine
,’ she had written. ‘
Three young children, husband in prison, and an older stepson, Michael (20). She’s afraid of him
.’
‘What’s the plan?’ Constable Philpott asked as the village came into view.
Taylor ordered the driver to stop and jumped down from the seat. The broadleaf woodland of Frankfield Park ran along the other side of the road, and some five hundred yards ahead on the right, he could just make out the turning that led to St Lawrence’s Church and the wicket gate where the Luards had separated for the last time.
‘We’ll go to house-to-house,’ he told Philpott. ‘I want the name or description of anyone seen walking along this
Taylor propped his shoulder against the wall. ‘Anything new?’ he asked.
The Inspector shook his head. ‘What about your end?’
‘I don’t know yet.’ Taylor took Sarah Anderson’s list from his pocket and placed it on the desk. ‘Have you come across any of these families?’
The other man glanced at the names. ‘Every copper in the district knows them.’
‘For what?’
‘Drunk and disorderly . . . petty theft . . . trespass . . . vandalism. They take up more police time than everyone else round here put together. Why are you interested?’
‘Whoever shot Mrs Luard probably has a history of criminal behaviour. It’s a big step from honest citizen to ruthless murderer.’
The Inspector gave a dry laugh. ‘Unless she was killed by a jealous husband who also happens to be a Justice of the Peace.’
Taylor shook his head. ‘There’d still be a history. The Major-General would have given her a black eye every time she tried to lock him out of her bedroom.’
Hamble placed his hand on the list. ‘There are some bad apples here but I can’t see any of them shooting Mrs Luard. They wouldn’t have dared. Country folk have more respect for their betters than city dwellers.’
Taylor moved to the window. Dusk was falling quickly but he could see a little knot of serving girls, hurrying to buy bread before the baker closed for the night. Here and there, flickering candles shone through ground-floor windows. In the gathering darkness he might have been looking at a street in the East End.
‘What if a woman like Mrs Luard was murdered in Hyde Park, George? Where do you think we’d be looking for her murderer? Out here in the wilds of Kent or somewhere in London?’
‘London.’
‘Even closer. We’d be looking for people who lived and worked in the Hyde Park area. Criminals tend to operate close to home because they know the best escape routes.’
‘Our man had two and a half hours to disappear.’
‘Maybe so, but don’t you find it odd that a stranger managed to enter and leave Frankfield Park without being seen? How did he get there? On foot? On a bicycle? Which direction did he come from? Several people saw the Major-General but no one remembers a stranger.’
‘No one remembers the people on this list either.’
‘How do you know?’ Taylor turned from the window. ‘Has anyone even been asked that question?’
Chapter Eleven
Saturday, 5 September 1908 –
Stone Street, morning
Saturday morning broke cold and clear, and the Scotland Yard detectives put on extra vests to travel by pony and trap. They planned to start in the village of Stone Street before moving on to Borough Green and the other places beyond Ightham.
Kent’s police chief, Henry Warde, had refused the London visitors the use of his Daimler because it was too well known. Asking questions of the poor and needy was Superintendent Taylor’s line of inquiry. If Scotland Yard came up with anything, Kent Police would take the credit. If they didn’t, Warde would deny that the poor had ever been his target.
Stone Street was a smaller village than Ightham, clustered on the southern border of Frankfield Park. For that reason the people who lived there were of interest to Taylor. In particular, one family on Sarah Anderson’s list.
‘
Mrs Blaine
,’ she had written. ‘
Three young children, husband in prison, and an older stepson, Michael (20). She’s afraid of him
.’
‘What’s the plan?’ Constable Philpott asked as the village came into view.
Taylor ordered the driver to stop and jumped down from the seat. The broadleaf woodland of Frankfield Park ran along the other side of the road, and some five hundred yards ahead on the right, he could just make out the turning that led to St Lawrence’s Church and the wicket gate where the Luards had separated for the last time.
‘We’ll go to house-to-house,’ he told Philpott. ‘I want the name or description of anyone seen walking along this
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