The Murder Book

by Jane A. Adams

  He had stayed there, drinking steadily until chucking out time. A few of the locals had recognized him and passed the time of day with him and, later in the evening, he had been aware of many looks cast his way as those with news of the murders and of his relationship to the victims spread word to those who did not. A couple of men bought him a drink and one tried to offer awkward condolences but most had taken one look at him and, deciding that he was not in the mood for conversation, had left him alone.

  When the landlord called time, George drained his glass and upended it on the table in front of him. Conversation and amiable goodbyes paused as George announced, by the turning of the glass, that he was up for a fight.

  ‘Time to go, gentlemen,’ the landlord said firmly. ‘An’ any of you’n hanging around outside will be barred.’

  George was the last to leave. The landlord took one arm and his barman the other. They lifted him to his feet before escorting him to the door and depositing him on the pavement outside. George staggered and then turned, took a wild swing at those who dared to put him out and met the closing door with his fist. He fell backwards on to the pavement and lay there looking up at the sky.

  When he finally got back on to his feet the street was empty, his fellow drinkers having taken the landlord at his word and disappeared, but George was still looking for a fight. He was angry with the world but he couldn’t thump the world and he couldn’t beat seven shades out of the man who’d done for his Mary and his Ruby but he still wanted to hit something. He made his way more by instinct than thought to the little house where his family had died. A constable still stood by the door and he turned to look at George as he staggered into the street.

  ‘On your way home, sir?’ George could see the young constable reaching for his truncheon, clearly having taken one look at this drunken man and decided that trouble was brewing.

  Home, George thought. Somewhere at the back of his mind he remembered how he had felt when they had reached port, the anticipation of coming back to his family. To his wife. And now some bastard had taken that away from him.

  George managed a single punch which made contact with the constable’s eye just before the truncheon made contact with George’s head and the second constable, that he had not noticed, leapt out of the shadows and floored him with a rugby tackle. George went down heavy.

  THIRTEEN

  The infirmary, newly refurbished, he had been told, stood at the rear of the red brick workhouse building, joined to the main block by a covered walkway.

  Henry arrived promptly at a few minutes before eight o’clock and was satisfied to find that the surgeon was waiting for him and the body laid out.

  He was even further reassured to see familiar volumes on the shelves of the mortuary.

  ‘You have studied the work of Sydney Smith?’

  ‘Of course. I may be responsible for a country practice but I like to keep abreast of developments. I’m called on to perform post-mortems several times in any given week here or in Lincoln or even Boston, and I’ve actually sat in the public gallery of the Old Bailey and seen the man in action.’

  Henry nodded, reassured. ‘You’ve witnessed Spilsbury too?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. I’m told he’s something of a showman?’

  ‘He likes to perform, that’s true. But a performance often helps the jury to understand the science so I’ve no objection to that. He brings equipment into the court, demonstrates the whys and wherefores of the evidence. Sometimes that helps.’

  Doctor Fielding waited for an explanation of the ‘sometimes’ but when none was forthcoming he moved over to where Ruby’s body lay. ‘I thought we might start with the child,’ he said. He beckoned to a young man who had been standing in the doorway. ‘Mr Brant is studying medicine,’ he said. ‘He’ll be recording events and assisting if necessary.’

  Henry nodded and came close to the marble slab on which the small body lay.

  The doctor described the age and length and weight of the child and then he and Henry began their examination.

  ‘There is a contusion to the side of the head,’ Henry noted, ‘and the skull has what looks like a depressed fracture.’

  ‘Likely the killing blow. When I’ve shaved the hair we’ll get a better picture. I’ve done a preliminary examination of the young man and my first impression is that the killing blows for both were caused by the same weapon but—’

  ‘We must be careful not to get ahead of ourselves.’

  ‘Indeed. The child was in generally good health, adequately nourished and clean. There is extensive bruising to the right shoulder and this continues on to the back – as you will see in a moment.’

  ‘Definitely bruising?’ Henry asked.

  The doctor laughed. ‘As you’ll see when we turn the body, there are signs that the child was left in a slumped position, probably against a wall. The blood has pooled and settled in the extremities. It’s easy to distinguish from the bruising in this instance.’

  Henry nodded, satisfied. It was good, he thought, to find someone knowledgeable right out in the sticks like this. He reprimanded himself for being prejudiced. The doctor, as though reading his mind, nodded. ‘I was a war surgeon,’ he said. ‘I learnt more about the inside of the human body than I ever wished to know. It seemed like a good idea to refine what I had learnt and keep my knowledge up to date.’

  ‘Where did you serve?’ Henry asked. Mickey had told him that it was a question most folk found obvious and were surprised when it didn’t come up.

  ‘Too many places. One field hospital looks very much like another after a while.’

  Henry looked at the man with more interest. The answer was very much like his own would have been. He began to think he might like Dr Fielding.

  FOURTEEN

  The first that Inspector Johnstone knew about George Fields’ arrest was when he returned to the police station after the post-mortem. He was not pleased that he had been kept in the dark about it.

  ‘Apparently,’ Mickey Hitchens told him, ‘he turned up at the house, blotto, swung for the constable and the constable swung for him. There was, you could say, an exchange of blows, but I think our Mr Fields came off worst. He was put in a cell and left to sleep it off. Constable Parkin has a right shiner.’

  ‘And no one informed us because?’

  ‘To be fair, I don’t think Constable Parkin realized who he was,’ Mickey Hitchens said. ‘And the man was in no fit state to give his name.’

  ‘And no one thought there was a connection to be made?’ Henry Johnstone said coldly.

  Mickey, used to his boss’s moods, merely shrugged. ‘I’m told he’s fit for interview now,’ he said.

  ‘Then have him brought up.’

  The interview room was tiny. There was barely space for the small table and three wooden chairs that looked as though they had come from a schoolroom. Mickey sat but Henry stood, frowning at the door as they waited for George Fields to be brought in.

  ‘How did the post-mortem go?’

  ‘Efficiently enough. The man had sense enough to follow Sydney Smith’s instructions and did a good enough job. Confirmed most of what we thought. And the employer came in and verified the cousin’s identity.’

  ‘So the young man is definitely Walter Fields then.’ He paused. George Fields could be heard making a racket in the hallway, shouting over another voice which was clearly a police officer trying to remonstrate with him. ‘Did he live with Mrs Fields and the girl?’

  ‘Apparently not, just checked in on them from time to time. He had a room close by the bus depot. We’ll talk to his landlady later this afternoon.’

  The door opened and George Fields was ushered in, a policeman hanging on each arm. He was persuaded to sit down though the chair was nearly knocked over in the process. Bleary-eyed, bruised and filthy from where he’d rolled in the gutter, George Fields stared defiantly at them.

  ‘If you quieten down there, Mr Fields, we can have ourselves a bit of a chat,’ Mickey s
aid.

  ‘And who the hell are you?’

  ‘We,’ Henry Johnstone said quietly, ‘are the men who are going to find who did this to your family. Our condolences, Mr Fields. Now, if you are willing to be quiet then our colleagues here can let you go and we can talk like civilized people.’

  For a moment it looked as though George Fields wanted to do anything but sit quietly and talk, then he slumped in his chair and cradled his head in his hands.

  ‘Grief and a hangover,’ Mickey said. ‘Not a good combination in anybody’s book. Constable, you can maybe get the man a cup of tea.’

  ‘He chucked the last one at the wall, sir,’ the constable objected.

  ‘Yes, but maybe he’s in a better frame of mind now so fetch him another one.’

  The constable left and Mickey turned his attention back to George Fields, his boss stood quietly in the corner of the tiny little room. Out of the corner of his eye Mickey could see him fiddling with his cigarette case. ‘Now then,’ Mickey said, leaning back in the child-sized wooden chair, his shoulders overhanging on both sides and his feet planted firmly, compensating for the lack of an accommodating seat. ‘Now then,’ he repeated, ‘what the hell were you doing throwing a punch at a young police constable in the middle of the night? He ain’t the one that did for your wife and child. Guarding the crime scene, that’s all he were doing. And he gets a black eye for his trouble.’

  ‘I’d had a drink or two. What of it?’

  ‘And from what the landlord told us you were spoiling for a fight. Picked on the wrong man, didn’t you?’

  ‘Couldn’a get hold of the right bastard, could I. Ifn’ I had you would have had another body to be dealing with.’

  ‘And you’d have been hanged when another should have done,’ Henry said.

  ‘So what, you’ll not get him. He’ll be someone you can’t touch, someone they’ll all protect. What does someone like my Mary matter or my Ruby? What do they matter to people like you?’

  ‘You know what they say about your wife?’ Mickey asked.

  He nodded. ‘And I know it’s the truth.’

  ‘And how did that make you feel?’

  ‘How the hell do you think it made me feel?’

  ‘You must have been furious with her?’

  George Fields lifted his head and looked Mickey straight in the eye. ‘I was shipboard until yesterday. I never touched my Mary; never raised a hand to her even though I sometimes wanted to. She’d promised me it had all stopped.’

  ‘They say a leopard can’t change its spots,’ Mickey observed.

  George Fields looked away.

  The door opened and the constable brought a cup of tea. He set it down cautiously in front of George.

  ‘You can go,’ Mickey told him. ‘Mr Fields will cause us no more trouble, isn’t that right, Mr Fields?’

  The constable left reluctantly and Mickey shifted in his chair, more uncomfortable by the minute. ‘And what do you know about the men who visited your wife?’ Mickey asked. ‘Picky, was she? Prefer the ones who were able to pay more? Respectable men?’

  George Fields didn’t move. His fists rested on the table either side of his cup of tea and he stared Mickey in the face. Henry would not have taken bets at that moment on the tea not following the stare but finally George slumped again, his shoulders sagging. He wiped his face with shaking hands. ‘She was a good mother and a good wife,’ he said. ‘But there was never enough coming in. She wanted Ruby to have the best and so did I but I never wanted Mary to do what she did. She said she were careful, she said she’d only do with nobs, with the men who could afford to pay and wouldn’t make trouble. And she promised she’d finished with it anyway. Promised she weren’t doing that no more.’

  ‘So she lied to you, or perhaps you never really believed her.’

  ‘I wanted to. I really truly wanted to. I hoped she meant it.’

  ‘And knowing she lied to you? What did that make you want to do? You must have guessed she was telling you what you wanted to hear – who’s to say you didn’t arrange something? Arrange for someone to keep an eye on her and when you found out she’d broken her word …’

  The fists were back, slamming down on the table top. The cup rattled and tea spilt into the saucer. Mickey remained impassive and Henry continued to turn his cigarette case in his hand as though contemplating the possibility of a smoke.

  ‘Who was she seeing?’ Mickey persisted. ‘She must have told you, or maybe you got your Walter to keep an eye on her? Maybe that’s what he was doing when he went round that night – seeing who had come visiting. Maybe there was even a thought of blackmail involved? He thought he’d find out and touch them up for a bit of cash?’

  Henry watched as the colour drained from George’s face and he realized that up until this moment he hadn’t known about his young cousin’s death. ‘Walter? What do you mean about Walter?’

  ‘They found three bodies when they dug up that yard,’ Mickey told him. ‘Your wife, your child and a young man we now believe was Walter Fields.’

  The man had looked sick before, Henry thought, but now he looked on the verge of fainting. There was no colour left in his face and even his lips were blue. For a moment Henry wondered if he had a heart condition, then George took a couple of deep breaths and though the colour didn’t fully return he looked a little more normal.

  ‘Three of them? There were three of them? I heard there were three bodies found but I thought … I mean, I were only thinking of my Mary and my little girl. Everything else went out of my mind. Someone killed all three of them?’

  ‘Three bodies found.’ Mickey shifted in his seat again. ‘The way I read the scene is that your Walter came in, saw what was going on and tried to intervene. From the look of their injuries, Walter and Ruby were struck with an object that had a ridge and a heavy base. Can you think of anything in the house that might fit that description?’

  George’s eyes widened and Henry could see the horror in them as he imagined the scene. ‘Mary had a candlestick by the bed. Pewter but with a weighted base. Lead in the base. The base was like a square and ridged round the edge. It was a heavy thing.’

  ‘And Walter. Would he be likely to intervene if he saw something wrong? Is that something he’d be likely to do?’

  George nodded. ‘I asked him to keep an eye on them – not in the way you said, just to make sure they were all right. He used to drop in to make sure they were all right.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I need to know, my Ruby, had she been … you know.’

  ‘She’d not been interfered with, no.’

  George nodded, thankful for that small mercy.

  But she was still dead, Henry thought.

  Inspector Johnstone gave instructions that George Fields was to be held as there was still the small question of Constable Parkin’s black eye to be dealt with. Whatever his state of mind and provocation, George Fields had still assaulted a police officer.

  Still burning that he had not been informed immediately of Fields’ arrest and irritated, despite Sergeant Hitchens best attempts to mollify him, Henry went in search of Chief Inspector Carrington and found the man had just arrived.

  ‘Just how long does it take you to get here in the morning?’ Henry Johnstone snapped.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I asked how long it takes you to get here in the morning. How far you have to travel, because it seems to me that it would be more appropriate to have a man living locally.’

  ‘I don’t see how that is any of your concern.’

  ‘It’s my concern because you summoned me here. It’s my concern because a murder investigation is going on and you seem to be utterly detached from the process.’

  ‘I summoned you here because I could not be anything but detached from the process, as you say. I am fulfilling my obligations to the victims by bringing in so-called experts from London.’

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ Mickey Hitchens’ voice, nonchalant and calm, drifted through from the front
office. ‘I think our appointment with the landlord was at eleven-fifteen a.m.?’

  Henry Johnstone looked at his watch. A silver Longines, it had been a gift from his sister and was undoubtedly the most expensive thing he owned. It was just after eleven o’clock. He saw Carrington observing the watch – no doubt assessing the price of it – and turned on his heel and left before the other officer could say anything more.

  ‘The landlord’s name is Joseph Penning,’ Mickey told him. ‘Owns half-a-dozen properties in the town and more elsewhere. His upper-class lets he does through the agency of a Mr Mountain, who owns an estate agency and deals with the customers who have some money to spend and therefore some choice in the matter. The lower end of his business is taken care of by a man called Sump, who doesn’t appear to be available at the moment having been sent off to Lincoln late yesterday, apparently to deal with some dispute over rents.’

  ‘And is this Sump a person of interest for us?’

  ‘In the ordinary run of things, probably. In this case, probably not. He’s been out of town for the past week, came back the day before yesterday and was sent out again yesterday afternoon so it’s unlikely he was directly involved. That doesn’t rule out indirect involvement, of course, and it doesn’t rule out him having an arrangement with Mrs Fields either.’

  ‘And so we are seeing the landlord himself?’

  ‘We are. I told him to meet us at the house. It seemed appropriate.’

  Henry Johnstone nodded. Everywhere had its slum landlords and they were not a breed that he was fond of.

  Joseph Penning was pacing the street outside the house when they arrived and looking ostentatiously at his wristwatch. Henry glanced at his own and noticed that it was just on the quarter hour. Constable Parkin was back on duty and Henry wondered if he’d managed to get any sleep. His right eye was an impressive mess of black and purple. Henry ignored the landlord and went first to speak to the constable.