Innocent Victims

by Minette Walters

  INNOCENT

  VICTIMS

  By the same author

  The Ice House

  The Sculptress

  The Scold’s Bridle

  The Dark Room

  The Echo

  The Breaker

  The Shape of Snakes

  Acid Row

  Fox Evil

  Disordered Minds

  The Devil’s Feather

  INNOCENT

  VICTIMS

  MINETTE

  WALTERS

  The Mysterious Press

  an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

  New York

  Chickenfeed copyright © 2006 by Minette Walters

  The Tinder Box copyright © 1999 by Minette Walters

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of an educational institution wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to

  Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003

  or permissions@groveatlantic.com.

  Chickenfeed was originally published in 2006 in the United Kingdom by Macmillan.

  The Tinder Box was originally published in 1999 by the United ­Kingdom by Macmillan

  ISBN: 978-0-8021-9446-6

  The Mysterious Press

  an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

  841 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  www.groveatlantic.com

  CONTENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE vii

  CHICKENFEED 1

  THE TINDER BOX 115

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I hope you enjoy these novellas and find the contrast between them interesting. They were commissioned seven years apart, by two very different organizations, but the purpose behind them was the same. To encourage people to read.

  The Tinder Box first appeared in Dutch translation under the title De Tondeldoos, and was given away free by the Organization for the Promotion of Books in the Netherlands during their 1999 Book Week. The aim was to persuade fluent readers to try a different genre, and upwards of half a million copies of De Tondeldoos were handed out on behalf of the crime genre.

  Chickenfeed was published on World Book Day, 2006, as part of the first ever Quick Reads scheme in the UK. Quick Reads are designed to help non-fluent adult readers improve their literacy skills through access to grown-up ideas in easy-to-read language. The challenge to the author is to write a novella which appeals to all readers—experienced and inexperienced—so that the stories can be discussed by everyone. Chickenfeed was voted the Best Quick Read of 2006.

  Both novellas explore the theme of justice. The Tinder Box depicts the dangers of prejudice within a small community, and how unrelated, misunderstood events combine to trigger a violent, vigilante reaction. Chickenfeed is a fictionalised retelling of the true story of the ‘Chicken Farm Murder’ in Southern England in 1924 for which a young man was hanged.

  Justice is as much about exonerating the innocent as it is about convicting the guilty, but the lines of responsibility become blurred when victims share the blame for what happens to them. How guilty is the perpetrator in those circumstances?

  And how innocent the victim?

  —Minette Walters

  CHICKENFEED

  Chickenfeed is based on the true story of the

  “Chicken Farm Murder,” which took place in

  Blackness Road, Crowborough, East Sussex,

  in December 1924.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Kensal Rise Methodist Church,

  north London—winter 1920

  The skies were dark with ice-filled clouds the day Elsie Cameron first spoke to Norman Thorne. Perhaps Elsie should have taken the gloom as an omen of what was to come. But could any girl predict that a man she met in church would hack her to pieces four years later in a place called Blackness Road?

  Outside, the wind and sleet beat against the Gothic spire of the Kensal Rise church. Inside, the flock huddled in their coats and listened to the preacher. He thundered against the demon of drink, which stole a person’s moral sense. Cursed would be the man who hit out in temper. Or the woman who had sex before marriage.

  Elsie Cameron, a small, plain twenty-two--year-old with chewed fingernails and thick glasses, barely listened. She had heard it all before. It was a message of grinding despair to a lonely girl who suffered from depression. Elsie wanted to be loved. But the only love on offer in the chapel was God’s, and His love came with conditions.

  Her gaze slid sideways towards the young man who sat with his father and stepmother in a nearby pew. Each time Elsie saw him her heart beat a little faster. He was four years younger than she was—eighteen—but he was handsome and he always smiled if he caught her eye. His name was Norman Thorne and he worked as a mechanic at Fiat Motors in Wembley.

  Norman’s real mother had died when he was eight. At sixteen, he’d joined the Royal Naval Air Force to serve in the Great War. The war had ended three weeks after he arrived in Belgium and he never saw any fighting. But that didn’t matter to Elsie. Any lad who stood up for his country was a hero.

  She worried about the age difference because she had a fear of being teased. Would people call her a cradle-snatcher if she persuaded him to walk out with her? But his work as a mechanic had filled him out. No one would guess he was only eighteen. Elsie bit nervously at her fingernails as she tried to think of a way to speak to him.

  Her mother had taught her that only “loose” women made the first move. Let the man come to you, she had said. But it hadn’t worked. Elsie’s brother and sister had no trouble finding girls and boys to “walk out” with. But not Elsie. Elsie scared would-be husbands away. She was too intense, too swamping, too desperate.

  She feared the things she wanted, and wanted the things she feared. She had nightmares about being left on the shelf—unwanted and unloved—but she couldn’t bring herself to flirt the way other girls did. The perfect man would be content to worship her until he put a ring on her finger. And only afterwards would anything of that sort happen.

  There was a stubborn streak in Elsie’s nature that blamed others for her problems. It wasn’t her fault that she was plain. It was her parents’ fault. And it wasn’t her fault that she lacked friends. Only a fool would trust people who gossiped behind her back.

  Elsie worked as a typist in a small firm in the City, but her colleagues had long since grown tired of her mood swings. They called her “difficult” and grumbled about her mistakes. She resented them for it. She resented her boss, who took her to task for failing to do her job properly.

  Once in a while—in the depths of despair—she wondered if her co-workers were right. Was she difficult? More often, she blamed them for making her unhappy. If people were nice to her, she would be nice back. But why should she have to be nice first?

  It’s on such little things that life and death turn.

  Would either have died if Norman hadn’t smiled?

  * * *

  As the congregation fi
led out of church, Norman Thorne was a pace or two ahead of Elsie. Deliberately, she trod on the back of his heel while pretending to search through her bag. His startled face turned towards her.

  She gave a squeak of dismay. “Whoops!” she exclaimed, clutching at his sleeve.

  Norman put out his hand to steady her. “Are you all right?”

  Elsie nodded. “I’m ever so sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He prepared to move on.

  “I know who you are,” she said in a rush. “Norman Thorne. I’m Elsie Cameron. We live quite close. My mum says you were in the war. That makes you a hero.”

  Norman gave a shy smile. “Not really.”

  “I think so.”

  The boy was flattered. And why not? He was young and no girl had ever looked at him this way before. Raised by a strict father, Norman neither drank nor smoked. He helped with the local Scouts, taught in the Sunday School and was involved in all kinds of chapel work.

  His smile widened to one of welcome. “Nice to meet you, Elsie.”

  Norman’s father wasn’t pleased when his son told him he had a girl.

  “You’re too young for such nonsense,” Mr. Thorne said. “You should put your energies into working.”

  “I’m not planning to marry her, Dad.”

  “Then watch how you treat her, lad. We don’t want any shotgun weddings in this family.”

  Nor was Elsie’s mother pleased. “He’s still a boy, dear. You’d be better off with someone older.”

  “He doesn’t look eighteen.”

  “Maybe not, Elsie . . . but he’ll make you unhappy in the long run. He’ll grow bored and leave you for someone else. Boys of that age always do.”

  Mrs. Cameron was bent over the kitchen sink, washing clothes. Her arms were deep in suds and Elsie stared at her stooped back with loathing. “Why do you always have to ruin everything for me?” she asked.

  “I don’t mean to,” her mother said with a sigh, “but Dad and I both feel—” She broke off abruptly. She was too tired for arguments that day, and Elsie never took her advice anyway.

  She had lost heart over the girl. There were no grey areas in Elsie’s life. Love must be total. Support tireless. Fault-finding zero. Mild criticism, designed to help her, led to tantrums . . . or worse, threats of suicide. Elsie could go for weeks without speaking to either of her parents. Other times she fawned on them.

  Conflict played a part in all her relationships. At home and at work. She could like a person one day and hate them the next. But she never understood why that turned people away. “It’s not fair,” she would say, bursting into tears. “Why is everyone so beastly to me?”

  Neither of her parents could see a happy ending for her. Mrs. Cameron prayed she’d meet an older man who would put up with her moods. Mr. Cameron said no such man existed now. If he ever had, he’d died in the war.

  The war had killed so many men. It meant a generation of young women would not find husbands. For every Norman Thorne, there were five young girls begging to be noticed. And Mrs. Cameron knew Elsie well enough to know that she was too needy to hold Norman’s interest for long.

  But, like her daughter’s co-workers, she’d had enough of the petulant mood swings. “Do as you please,” she said, drawing a pillowcase from the water and thumping it against the wooden washboard. “Just don’t come running to me when Norman Thorne lets you down.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  North London—summer 1921

  Norman scuffed his feet along the pavement. He’d been given his cards by Fiat and was living on ten shillings (50p) a week dole money. “Everyone’s been laid off,” he told Elsie. “It’s happening all over. Dad says there’s three million out of work and it’s going to get worse.”

  Elsie had to walk fast to keep up with his longer legs. “What will you do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’ll have to do something, pet. You can’t live on the dole forever.”

  (She meant: “If you don’t find another job soon it’ll be ages before we can marry.” But as usual Norman dodged the issue.)

  “We were lied to,” he complained instead. “Us lads who went away to war were told we’d come home to ‘a land fit for heroes.’ Remember that? They promised us jobs and money”—he took a swipe at a bush as he passed—“and we haven’t got bloody either.”

  Elsie let the “bloody” go. Now wasn’t the time to take him to task for cursing. She felt like saying she was more upset than he was. Things had been going well while he was earning. So much so that her hints about marriage had brought a smile to his face. Then he lost his job and everything changed.

  There could be no talk of weddings while he was out of work. Wives and children cost money. A man should never make promises he couldn’t keep. There was more to marriage than kissing. Hardship and poverty led to anger and hate.

  These weren’t messages that Elsie wanted to hear. Her romantic streak said love could overcome all problems. What did it matter if they were poor as long as they had each other? She knew her feelings for Norman were stronger than his for her. She called him her “lovey,” her “pet,” her “treasure,” but he only ever called her “Elsie” or “Else.”

  She tucked her hand through his arm and put on her brightest smile. “You’re always telling me there’s money in chickens. Why don’t you start a chicken farm?”

  “Where?” He sounded annoyed, as if he found her idea foolish. But he didn’t push her away.

  “Not in London. Somewhere outside. Sussex or Surrey maybe. Land’s cheaper away from the city.”

  He slowed to a halt. “How would I pay for it?”

  “You could ask your dad for a loan. You said he’s been careful all these years. You never know. He might give you the money instead of making you wait till he’s dead. He’s got no one else to leave it to.”

  “Do you reckon?”

  “I don’t see why not. Raising chickens is better than living on the dole.”

  It was amazing how quickly his depression lifted. “You could be right, Else. He said he’d give me a hand if I needed it.”

  “There you are then.”

  He gave her fingers a quick squeeze. “We wouldn’t see so much of each other. Sussex is a fair lick from Kensal Rise.”

  “We’ll manage,” she said. “We’ll write every day. It’ll make our love stronger.”

  Mr. Thorne surprised Norman by the speed with which he stumped up £100 for the project. Elsie said it was because he had faith in his son. But Norman thought it had more to do with parting him from Elsie. Mr. Thorne was a little too eager to see his boy move to Sussex. Perhaps he hoped that out of sight would mean out of mind.

  “The change will do you good,” he said cheerfully. “It’s time you met new people and spread your wings. You’re stuck in a rut here, lad.”

  Sometimes Norman felt that, too. He was fond of Elsie. He even wondered if he was in love with her when she was in a good mood. But he could never predict when that would be. It got him down. There were days when she was happy, and other days when she wasn’t. But it was always him who had to match his mood to hers. Never the other way round.

  She called her ups and downs her “nerves.” “I worry about things, pet. It makes me jumpy. Mum says it’ll wear off when I have a family. I can’t be fretting for myself when I have children to look after.”

  Norman doubted that. Surely a baby would give her more to worry about? But he didn’t say so. Elsie was easier to get on with when she was making plans. She took it for granted that her future would include him.

  Once or twice, he tried to suggest differently. “I’m not the only bloke in the world, Else. Maybe you’ll find someone better.”

  “How can I? You’re my own sweet darling.”

  “Maybe I’ll find so
meone better,” Norman teased, not completely in jest.

  She put him through hell when he said such things. An older man might have used the sulks as an excuse to end the affair. But not a church-going boy of nineteen who was both flattered and trapped by Elsie’s devotion.

  Which may explain why the idea of a chicken farm outside London was as welcome to Norman as it was to his father. He hoped a breathing space would help him make up his mind.

  He bought a field off Blackness Road in Crowborough, Sussex, and took it over on August 22nd, 1921. In the hope of blessing the project from the start, he named the plot Wesley Poultry Farm. (John Wesley was the founder of the Methodist Church.)

  Norman lodged locally. During the day he built chicken sheds and runs. The weather was warm in September and the work was hard. His only transport was his bicycle and he was careful what he spent.

  After the purchase of land, he had to buy timber and wire, while keeping enough in reserve for chickens to stock the farm. It meant he spent most of his time alone and never treated himself to a night out.

  Of course he missed Elsie. She wrote to him every day so that he wouldn’t forget her. “My own darling Norman . . .” “Oh, my treasure, how I adore you . . .” “Do you think of me as much as I think of you, pet . . . ?” “Does absence make your heart grow fonder of your little lovey . . . ?”

  It did. Every Friday evening he cycled the fifty miles to Kensal Rise to spend the weekend with her. But the round trip was tiring, and he warned her that he wouldn’t be able to do it once the poultry arrived.

  “I can’t abandon them, Else. They’ll need to be fed and watered Saturdays and Sundays, same as during the week.”

  She became tearful, so he told her he was planning to build a hut to live in. “It won’t be much,” he said. “Maybe twelve feet by eight feet, but there’s a well for water and I can make a bed along one wall. I’ll cook on an oil stove and light candles when it gets dark.”