The Marsh & Daughter Casebook

by Amy Myers

  ‘Go ahead then, but take it easy. I’m not altogether happy.’

  ‘Nor am I. Perhaps they mistimed it . . .’ Georgia was foxed. ‘Perhaps they killed Jack but it took longer than expected to get him into the denehole. They’re unlikely to have run it so close though. I’m stuck. The timing just doesn’t work.’

  ‘Timing,’ repeated Peter meditatively. ‘Timing. Now that watch he was wearing . . . could it have been set to a different time, since he’d come from France?’

  ‘No, I’m pretty sure French time was the same as Greenwich in 1929. Wrong path, Peter.’

  ‘Time could well come into it somehow,’ he persisted. ‘Otherwise there seems no explanation for Ada’s death. As I see it, Ada must have arrived all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at ten o’clock, just in time to see them either killing the man she thinks is her lover, or throwing him in the denehole. But then, as you said, why did the Bloomfields leave the murder so near to the time when they knew Ada might be around.’

  ‘Perhaps –’ Georgia thought this through logically – ‘they didn’t know that she’d be around. If the maid or even Jack himself took the call – it had been his home after all – only he would know what arrangement he’d made with Ada. Perhaps –’ her hopes grew – ‘he kept this back as a fail-safe bargaining point with the Bloomfields. They won’t see things his way, so he gets up from his chair and announces he’s off to catch the last train to London and – incidentally – he’s meeting Guy’s former sweetheart on the way there. She might not have recognized Jack’s voice on the telephone but she certainly would recognize face to face that this was Jack, not her beloved Guy.’

  ‘Good,’ Peter said approvingly. ‘But, darling Georgia, if, say, he was due to meet her at ten fifteen or ten thirty, and he made his dramatic announcement between nine thirty and nine forty-five, the Boomfields would make sure that they kept Jack well out of Ada’s path. Checkmate, I think.’

  ‘Not yet.’ Georgia grappled with this last stumbling block. What was it Peter had said earlier? Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. That was it. ‘Of course, Peter. Ada was a woman,’ she cried out triumphantly.

  ‘I always said you were a great detective, Watson.’

  ‘Quiet please. Ada hasn’t seen Guy for at least twelve years. She doesn’t want to waste a second of this reunion. He must surely feel the same. He might arrive early. And so would she. She does so, and catches the Bloomfields in the last stages of pushing Jack down the denehole.’

  ‘Possible. In fact, probable,’ Peter graciously allowed after a seeming never-ending silence. ‘I note however that we’re both referring to them, not just Matthew Bloomfield.’

  ‘I assume that where Matthew went the She-Wolf was not far behind.’

  ‘Lady Macbeth soiling her hands. They strangled Ada?’

  Georgia nodded, on safer ground now. ‘She’d either run for her life or walked with them to the edge of the wood, where she was killed, and then they dragged or carried her back to Crown Lea.’

  ‘Why not push her into the denehole too?’

  ‘She’d be missed.’

  ‘Why the field?’

  ‘The need to distance the body from the denehole and the Wickenham estate. There was no torch listed in the exhibits at the trial and, though that isn’t conclusive, it could have been because her torch was left where she was killed, and Lord or Lady Macbeth scooped it up later. Ada’s handbag had to go with her, though, or it would be missed.’

  ‘Agreed. Done. Theoretical scenario very provisionally accepted.’ Peter leant back with satisfaction and Georgia began to think longingly of escape. ‘Now, about the She-Wolf . . .’ Peter began.

  Georgia could see where this was going. Ah well, better to get it over with. She thought for a moment. Then: ‘The She-Wolf and the Vicar. This scenario runs: by 1943 Matthew is frail, he realizes he hasn’t long to live, and the murder of his brother hangs heavily on him. He needs to confess. So he does, to the vicar. The She-Wolf is furious when Matthew tells her, or she finds out, but assumes the vicar won’t split on them for the usual reasons, after Matthew’s death.

  ‘However, along comes François and the vicar is in a dilemma. If Matthew has explained about the Randolph connection, then he knows that François is actually Jack Bloomfield’s son, and François and his brothers have a claim on Wickenham. What should he do? Direct François to the Randolph family or the Bloomfields? Either course seems wrong. He takes François’s address, and tells Isabel she must tell François the truth, but he dies as a result.’

  ‘So far, so good,’ Peter said approvingly. ‘But what if Matthew just told the vicar that he’d murdered his brother and Ada, without any mention of the Randolph connection? There’d be no reason for Matthew to mention it.’

  ‘Ah.’ Georgia was checkmated. Or was she? ‘The vicar would have given François the Randolph address if he had it. But –’ thinking furiously – ‘when François got no joy at the Manor, he had told the She-Wolf innocently that he would go to see the vicar. And so he does, but the vicar either doesn’t have the address or smells a sufficient rat when François begins to talk dates and background for Guy Randolph to be cagey. So he sends François to see the Manor maid.’

  ‘Why?’ Peter asked politely.

  Sinking heart time. ‘Offloading responsibilities,’ she tried hopefully. ‘Guy Randolph came over here in 1929, and Jack Bloomfield and Ada were murdered. Surely no coincidence, he thinks. He can’t say a word, but why not give François a sporting chance to look into it? He sends him to see the Manor maid, but says if he comes across the Randolphs’ address he’ll send it on. Manor maid doesn’t have the Randolphs’ address. End of story.’ She glanced nervously at Peter, but to her relief he did not comment.

  ‘And then,’ she concluded, ‘the vicar goes to see Isabel She-Wolf after François’ visit. He is torn in his duty, he says. Matthew has not implicated his wife, but the vicar feels a duty to the Randolphs too.’

  ‘Both possibilities accepted,’ Peter said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Thanks very much. The vicar is a loose cannon, thinks the She-Wolf. He’s getting on and goodness knows what he might say. The She-Wolf has her son’s future to think of. So the vicar has to go. Easy enough to invite him to lunch, and slip the rat poison into the pie. She stops short of murdering his whole family—’

  ‘I’m relieved.’

  ‘So that’s it,’ Georgia concluded.

  ‘What about Terence Scraggs?’ came the inevitable question.

  One more river to cross . . . She made a huge effort.

  ‘Okay. Here goes. Terence is a Randolph. He has been told by Grandpa François this legend of the great estate and François’s own fruitless errand, so he comes to Wickenham to chat with Trevor Bloomfield. He’s also heard about the body in the denehole. He makes a plan of the estate and begins to put two and two together, but unfortunately only made three. He still believes it was Guy Randolph who had come here in 1929, and had been the skeleton in that denehole, and innocently assumed Trevor would like to know. Or,’ she amended hastily, seeing Peter’s expression and interpreting it correctly, ‘not so innocent. Maybe he saw the chance of a bit of blackmail too.’

  ‘And where, dear daughter, does that leave us?’

  ‘Back on the Bloomfield doorstep.’

  ‘Their DNA profiles weren’t a match with the alien hair.’

  ‘Perhaps the hair was nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Trevor Bloomfield is a businessman. He wouldn’t lose his nerve at a blackmail threat from the likes of Terence, and, after all, blackmail over what? That for some reason his grandfather bumped off Guy Randolph? So what? It was over seventy years ago. If Trevor Bloomfield wanted to stop Scraggs from talking, it would be over a threat to his pocket, not his ethics. Where’s your evidence? he’d ask.’

  ‘Some kind of shadow must have lingered over the Bloomfields,’ Georgia maintained obstinately, ‘and it’s flared up again now. They could all have known, or at least the heirs, that Ja
ck was passing himself off as Randolph and that he had a family. They wouldn’t know what evidence that family might still have that Guy Randolph was actually Jack Bloomfield. Suppose the message came down to Trevor that there could be a major threat to their ownership from anyone called Randolph.’

  ‘Possible. I’ll buy that,’ Peter graciously agreed. ‘But not to the extent of his murdering Scraggs. I’ll see you in court, would be Trevor’s reaction.’

  ‘Doesn’t it depend on what Terence said to him? He wasn’t exactly sophisticated, but he had a lot of intelligence and could have worked out the Bloomfield–Randolph connection.’ She warmed to this. ‘After all, François could have told him all about his visits to the Manor and, if we’re right, the vicar. Suppose Terence barged in to see Trevor with a definite claim. Hey, I’m a Randolph, but I’ve evidence I’m really a Bloomfield and heir to Wickenham. The deal for the sale was just going through, and considering the jittery state the Bloomfields were in over the sports fields protest, it could have been the last straw. Delay might have put paid to the sale in the case of the hotel. No one wants a lawsuit hanging over them, whether it’s likely to succeed or not. Terence would have had no hesitation airing his claim to all and sundry.’

  ‘Possibly, but do I have to remind you again, Georgia, that there is no DNA evidence that the Bloomfields were involved in Scraggs’s murder? They and just about every blinking member of Wickenham village has had a sample taken. You’re turning into a bit of a She-Wolf yourself about the Bloomfields. I’m with you up to and including Isabel’s drastic methods of silence, but today murder is a far less effective weapon than the courts. Especially when one side has money and the other hasn’t.’

  Georgia had only been half listening. ‘That’s it,’ she said slowly.

  ‘That’s what?’ Peter asked extremely crossly.

  ‘You said the Bloomfields had all given DNA samples. You meant father, son Jacob and son who were visible at the protest. How about the She-Wolf in lamb’s clothing, Julia? The Bloomfields have upped and left Wickenham. Did she volunteer a buccal swab before they left? I doubt it. And she wouldn’t stomach any threat to the sale. Or to her financial security. Trevor might have brazened it out with Scraggs, but his own She-Wolf could have been all for direct action, given such a splendid opportunity. Julia was interested enough to help me when I first met her, but my mention of the name Randolph put the heebie-jeebies into Trevor; he probably gave her hell after I left, and told her exactly why the Randolph name was so unpopular. Knowing Julia, I think she’d have seen the message right away. And acted on it.’

  He frowned. ‘Going out on a limb, aren’t you?’

  ‘Am I?’ She seized the evidence file and rummaged to find the police breakdown Mike had given them. ‘Here,’ she said in triumph. ‘The Bloomfields came out and father and younger son retreated. Jacob remained, and went later, but Terence was still alive then. No mention of Julia Bloomfield at all. According to her husband, she was in the house. Anything to stop her from donning a balaclava, coming round from the rear of the house and joining the Elgin gang?’

  ‘No, Georgia, there isn’t. But this is here and now, not fantasy land.’

  ‘Here and now things happen. Isn’t it worth asking Mike casually, just very casually, if Julia Bloomfield has given a DNA sample to see if it matches that hair caught under Terence Scraggs’ fingernail?’

  *

  Late that evening she let herself into her house to find Luke there, a fire in the grate and, from the smell of it, dinner in the oven. The Christmas lights were on, her slippers were waiting by the sofa. Luke turned round at her entry and came to meet her.

  ‘Well, sweetheart? Progress?’

  ‘We think you may have your book.’

  ‘Based on what?’

  Georgia smiled. ‘What Peter always hoped for. Jack’s Return Home.’

  Epilogue

  ‘How do you feel about Wickenham now?’ Luke asked. It was New Year’s Day, and the village presented only its fair image, children out with parents, strolling over the Green, or marching towards the sports fields. A Todd talked to an Elgin, the Green Man had a festive air.

  ‘Delightful,’ Georgia answered. It was. She could swear there were no fingerprints here now. A whole week without the Ada Proctor case, a week of bliss. Then yesterday morning Mike had called to tell them that the skeleton’s DNA sample had sufficient in common with that of Trevor Bloomfield to convince the police that it was worth pursuing Julia Bloomfield’s DNA. If it matched that of Terence Scraggs that would put her in the frame for his murder.

  Peter had grunted. He had already, Georgia suspected, erased Wickenham’s fingerprints from his mind, and he’d long forgotten about the East Anglian case. He seemed more interested in an out-of-the-way pub they’d visited over the holiday period. Friday Street was the name of the hamlet, and even Georgia had been bound to agree there was a weird atmosphere about it. Then she had forgotten it as Morris men arrived to dance their Christmas special, and she and her father had fiercely debated the pros and cons of reviving ancient customs.

  One duty and pleasure remained in Wickenham, however, and she, Peter and Luke were here to fulfil it: Mary Elgin.

  Somehow they had managed to get Peter’s wheelchair into the small lift at Four Winds. He was not, he insisted, going to be left out of this, and since Mary was in bed again, the staff refused to allow her downstairs. She was very weak, Georgia could see, but still, to her relief, alert. The gaudy new shawl was draped over the bedcover, which was a good sign.

  ‘Three of you, eh? So it’s all right at last.’ Mary looked hopefully at each of them in turn.

  ‘Yes, Mary. We think we’ve done it.’

  ‘It were those Bloomfields, weren’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Always trouble at that Manor, Mum said. Nasty lot. Wickenham would be better off without them, the way she saw it.’

  ‘And now it is.’

  ‘That’s all right then. So Davy’s clear.’

  ‘Yes,’ Peter told her gravely. ‘The problem is, Mary, that it can’t be official now. Even though they’ve found the dead body of Jack Bloomfield, who also died that night, no one can ever prove up to court of law standard that what we are sure happened is true. We can try for an official clearance of Davy Todd, but that’s doubtful, not because the police don’t believe it, but for technical reasons.’

  Mary made not a sound or move. She just watched him.

  ‘What we can do,’ he continued, ‘is publish our book. We can make sure that everyone who reads it will know Davy was innocent.’

  Here came the sticky part, as Georgia knew very well. They’d discussed it endlessly not only with this case, but previous ones. ‘We can publish our book and Davy is theoretically cleared,’ she had said to her father yesterday, ‘but the innocent in the Bloomfield family will suffer without proof. There’s no libel problem, but there’s a moral one.’

  ‘We can’t judge that,’ he had answered. ‘We can only present our evidence, draw our conclusion and make it clear there’s a difference between the two.’

  Now Mary looked in disgust from one to the other. ‘Who in Wickenham is going to read a whole blessed book? Anyway, you’ve done what you said. I knew he was innocent, and you’ve told me what happened, so I can pop up there and say hello, Davy, I’m here to stay, any time I choose.’

  Mary’s eyes closed, and, frightened, Georgia realized they hadn’t said the right thing. She was still set on death. What more could they offer? Perhaps after all they had been wrong to expect to satisfy the crabby old lady of the teashop.

  ‘Who’s going to read a blinking book?’ Mary repeated faintly, eyes still closed.

  ‘Quite a lot of people,’ Luke said firmly, ‘and we can spread the word further with reviews of the book in the paper and television interviews—’

  Mary’s eyes flew open. ‘You mean I might be on telly? Now you’re talking.’ Slowly she heaved herself up on the pillows. ‘Tell you wha
t, Davy,’ she croaked, ‘I’ll only be a jiff, but I’m going to hang on for them telly folks first.’

  MURDER IN FRIDAY STREET

  © Amy Myers 2005

  Amy Myers has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2005 by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Author’s Note

  The place name Friday Street sometimes marked a cluster of houses on the road to the gallows (see Judith Glover’s The Place Names of Sussex). Some still survive and have now grown into villages, or have been absorbed as street names in others. I have situated my fictitious village of Friday Street on the Kentish North Downs, an area where it is still possible to imagine such remote communities might exist despite the super-highways and mega-rail lines that run nearby.

  For help and guidance while I was writing this book, I would like to thank Peter Francis, Dr Martin Porter, David Johnson, John Endicott of the Kent Police Museum in The Historic Dockyard, Chatham, and court reporters Marten Walsh Cherer Ltd. That I ever managed to finish writing it I owe to my husband, Jim, my sister Marian Anderson and my friend Jane Pollard; and that it then was published is thanks to my wonderful agent, Dot Lumley of Dorian Literary Agency, and the ever helpful Severn House staff and my editor, Amanda Stewart.