The Murder Book

by Jane A. Adams

  ‘It’s a bad business our sons have got themselves into,’ Elijah said.

  ‘I know it,’ Dar said. ‘And if you don’t want me near or the missus can’t stand to have me working for you, then I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘And you’d go where?’ Elijah said. He turned and the two men walked together into the house, pragmatism winning out for now. Dar was useful; Dar Samuels was required for the smooth running of the Hanson farm, but as Johnstone watched them disappear through the kitchen door he could tell from the set of their respective shoulders that the end of their association was close by. Two men had lost their children; one to violence while the other would lose theirs at the end of a rope and, Johnstone knew, because he made a point of being good at knowing, the enmity between them would grow by increments until the burden of referred guilt and continued loss became too heavy for two such basic and honest men to bear.

  FORTY

  As Johnstone had already discovered, Dr Thomas Fielding was no ordinary country practitioner, which was why Johnstone had called upon his services. Robert Hanson’s body had been laid out in the small parlour at the front of the house, the room reserved for important occasions and otherwise barely entered. Hanson brides stepped out from this room, leaving the family home; new wives were received here. Christening buffets were laid out upon the mahogany sideboard and coffins placed upon the solid oak of the refectory-style table, pulled out from its usual place against the wall.

  For all other seasons the room was kept closed, furniture clad in white dust sheets, carpet covered with a drop cloth and curtains closed tight against any stray ray of sunlight that might fade an unprotected inch of patterned rug.

  The dust sheets had been removed from the chairs in case the ‘gentlemen’ should need to sit down but the sheet covering the oak table had been left in place and now served to protect its surface from the bloodstains on Robert Hanson’s clothes and battered face.

  Johnstone had opened the curtains and let in the light. He was aware that Mrs Hanson viewed this action as virtual sacrilege; every blind and curtain in the house had been drawn closed, shutting out the life of the outside world and shutting in the dead. It was unthinkable that lights should be lit in daytime and now the house gloomed, stiff and silent and dim as any church.

  Only this room, the one place used to existing in such a twilight world, now allowed the sun to stream in through uncovered windows.

  Inspector Johnstone doubted that Mrs Hanson, born Margaret Cook and therefore second cousin to the Samuels, would ever forgive him for such insensitivity.

  He watched Dr Fielding as the physician examined the body. They would have stripped off his clothes, the better to see the full extent of his injuries, but rigor had not yet passed and his body lay stiff and awkward. Johnstone would have willingly cut the clothes from the body but Fielding had warned him that such action, even in pursuit of scientific ends, would have been beyond the pale. To destroy good clothes and to expose a son, naked, in his parent’s parlour; both would be sins in the eyes of the local community, Fielding warned, and Johnstone needed them onside if he was to get anywhere with this case.

  ‘The people here may seem pliant and simple,’ the doctor commented, ‘but believe me, they can soon turn if you offend their sensibilities. Turn and close ranks and, however much this death has shamed the community, should you be seen to shame it more you’ll cease to get help from any of them, the parents included.’

  Johnstone might have scoffed, both at the thought that anyone should put traditional respect above scientific demonstration and also that a man of Fielding’s education and refinement should take account of such crude emotions, but the voice of Mickey Hitchens in his head reinforced what Fielding had told him. Mickey would have advised in the same way had he been here and when it came to dealing with people Mickey was usually right. The advice fought with Johnstone’s instinct and questions. What did mere feelings matter? A murder had been done and the killer must be apprehended. That was the beginning and end of the matter. His sister often joined with Mickey Hitchens and told him that he saw the world in too simplistic a way. Henry respected both of their judgements even if he didn’t always agree with them.

  The doctor had been adamant, though, and finally they had reached a compromise. The initial examination of the body would be carried out here, such clothing as could easily be undone would be pulled aside and the body would then later be transferred to the infirmary, at Louth, where a more extensive examination could be completed.

  Truthfully, Johnstone doubted there was much more to be seen than what could already be observed – the heavy bruising and the cuts to the face and neck. The boot marks, clearly identified to Johnstone’s practised eye, that had lain across the cheek, broken the cheekbone and, he suspected, fractured the skull, spoke for themselves.

  ‘No defensive wounds,’ Fielding observed, studying Robert Hanson’s hands and forearms. ‘The initial blow must have rendered him helpless.’

  ‘That and the drink.’

  ‘True. I can smell that on him even now. So he was drunk and foolish, the Samuels’ boy lays into him with the riding crop and drags him from the horse, then proceeds to attack him when he’s on the ground.’ He looked expectantly at Johnstone. ‘Is that how you read it?’

  ‘Close enough and it fits with what the witness told me, though he was at pains to say he could not see clearly – that the horse came between him and the assault.’

  ‘And your witness is Frank Church,’ Fielding said thoughtfully. ‘You know that he was supposed to have married Helen Lee? Before the Samuels boy came back from the sea and plans changed.’

  Johnstone nodded slowly. ‘I’ve heard the village gossip,’ he agreed. ‘Which in my view makes Church the better witness. He has nothing to gain by diminishing Ethan Samuels’ blame in any of this, and yet he seeks to do so by telling me he could not see clearly what passed. He claims to have seen Samuels use his fists but not his boots.’

  ‘And yet, these injuries here. I cannot believe a man’s fist could have inflicted them.’

  ‘Nor I, and I’ve seen enough men mangled in the boxing ring.’

  Fielding looked up, interested. As Helen had earlier, Fielding could well imagine Johnstone as a fighter. ‘Oh?’ he said.

  ‘When I first served as a police officer, bare-knuckle bouts were commonplace, as was the gambling that went with them. A man striking with a gloved hand is able to hit harder, to strike directly at the head and face with little consequence to himself, but the marks left are bruising and abrasions on the skin and the unseen addling of the brain, not injuries like this. A man striking bare-handed cannot punch at the jaw and temple with anything like the same ferocity without risking serious injury to his own hands. Mostly, such fighters use body shots. It is in their interest to prolong the fight and the tension for as long as they can and increase their pay by doing so. No, Ethan Samuels might have started with his fists but I doubt he killed Robert Hanson with them. He kicked Robert Hanson in the head. Repeatedly so. Viciously so and with only one intent.’

  Fielding was watching him closely. ‘I know this village well,’ he said. ‘I come out to treat the Hansons and the vicar and Thompson, the schoolteacher. By osmosis, I suppose, I’ve gleaned knowledge of the rest. Dar Samuels raised his children well; I find it hard to believe such a single-minded and vicious attack could have been carried out by one of his children. While it is true Ethan was, like all boys, always getting himself into scrapes, I’ve never known it said that he was callous. The opposite, in fact, and by all accounts he was in love with his girl and had been promised a house and work by Hanson senior. He had so much to lose that it seems strange …’

  ‘Strange that such a boy should be unable to control his passions?’ Johnstone shook his head. ‘Forgive me, Doctor, but I don’t find it so. He took another man’s intended, fought him over the matter and it’s broadcast in the village that Helen Lee would not have been a virgin on her wedding night.’

>   ‘Oh, there is always gossip of that kind. A girl could come straight from a convent to her wedding and the old women would still be looking for signs of pregnancy.’

  ‘I think this is more than gossip. But my point is Ethan Samuels was not a figure known for his self-control and the evidence is there, laid out upon the body for anyone to see.’

  A commotion in the yard filtered through the quiet household, reaching them in the parlour. ‘It sounds as though the dogs have arrived.’ Johnstone headed for the door, leaving the doctor to rearrange Robert’s clothing and cover his body.

  It seemed as though most of the village had turned out to see the bloodhounds and had followed the van carrying the dogs up the hill to Hanson’s farm.

  Elijah Hanson ignored them all. Carrying a flour sack in his hand, he strode over to where the handler pulled the baying creatures from the back of the vehicle and called them to him with voice and leash and the deft cracking of a small whip. He did not touch the valuable dogs with the lash, using sound alone to bring them back under his control, but the cacophony of dogs giving voice, the man’s harsh calls and the sharp cracking of the cord added a touch of theatre to an already overblown occasion.

  The handler, a short-statured, wiry man with a wolfish face, warned Hanson back.

  ‘The beasts are excited, sir. They may snap at a stranger.’

  Hanson eyed him and the dogs with deep suspicion.

  Johnstone crossed the yard, his gaze sweeping left and right, taking in the crowd of villagers who had gathered in the yard and on the rutted track beyond, eager to see the show.

  ‘Don’t they have work to go to,’ he demanded loudly as he came to Hanson’s side. ‘Tell them to get on about their business, Hanson.’

  Elijah regarded him through narrowed eyes, his mouth set in a thin line, tight with contempt. ‘This is their business, Johnstone,’ he declared. ‘Hereabouts, we like our justice to have a face, to bear witness to its deeds. We don’t pass our concerns over to strangers just because that stranger declares himself our better.’

  ‘You called me here,’ Henry reminded him.

  ‘That I did, but only because the law does not permit me to take my own revenge. If you hang the lad it is seen as justice. Were I to do it that would be taken for vengeance and my own neck liable to be stretched. Believe me, but for that consideration I’d not have brought you within ten miles of my place.’

  The handler watched the exchange with interest and called his dogs to heel once more. They did not like to be confined for so long in the vehicle and, now that they’d been freed, wanted action. He knew they would soon become a challenge, even for him. ‘We should get started,’ he suggested quietly.

  ‘So we should,’ Hanson agreed. He handed the sack over to the wiry little man. ‘Inside,’ he said. ‘We took care not to handle it.’

  The handler nodded and withdrew a small pillow from the sack that had come from Ethan’s bed.

  ‘Will that do?’ Johnstone asked.

  ‘Nicely, sir.’ He offered it to his dogs. They ceased their baying and fell to silent inhalation, breathing deep of Ethan’s scent, learning about the man they would pursue.

  ‘You’ll pick up the track in that field,’ Johnstone told him. ‘Let’s be on.’

  The gate was opened and the dogs streamed through, pulling their master in their wake. Johnstone, broadcloth coat flying, followed swiftly behind.

  Hanson watched as the dogs cast about for the scent so recently learnt. One found it and called to the rest. They sniffed and bayed their satisfaction and then the chase was on, following the trail, invisible but strong, that Ethan had left.

  Elijah did not follow.

  Dar Samuels stepped up beside him. ‘How far can they travel in a day?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. Far enough, I reckon.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Dar sounded bitter. Bitter and terribly saddened by it all.

  ‘Dar, if you want to follow on I’ll spare you for the day.’

  Ethan’s father shook his head. ‘If they find my boy I might need time then to do … to do whatever I must. Meantime, there’s work enough here.’

  Elijah Hanson nodded briefly and felt the man leave his side. He stood and watched as the dogs found the gap in the hedge that Ethan had pushed through and then watched longer as they bounded effortlessly on up the hill. The slender figure of their handler dragged along in their wake and the carrion crow in black that was Inspector Johnstone loped effortlessly behind.

  Helen had heard the dogs but could not bear to go up to Hanson’s farm to watch. She bent her head over the laundry, hauling hot sheets from the copper and dumping them into the deep sink ready for the final rinsing and the application of the blue bag. Usually her mother would have considered it sinful to be washing on a Sunday but they had lost much of the Saturday because of what had happened with Ethan and Robert and, Sunday or not, people needed their clothes clean and their sheets washed. And her mother needed the money from it.

  Anyway, no one felt inclined to go to church or chapel today. She’d even seen the vicar heading up to Hanson’s farm.

  Nothing seemed quite real. Here she was, dealing with the everyday task of washing and rinsing, mangling and pegging to dry and while she was here, pretending that life was normal and that these simple tasks were of importance, the man she loved was being hunted down by a pack of baying dogs and a man filled only with thoughts of vengeance.

  ‘Please, God, let him be too far away,’ she prayed softly as she dumped a fresh load of sheets into hot water. ‘Let him be far, far away, even so far that I never see him again. Anything, God. I’ll even live with the thought of not seeing him no more so long as he stays safe and they don’t find him.’

  ‘Did you say something, Helen?’ Her mother stuck her head around the wash-house door.

  ‘No, Mam, I said nothing. Nothing at all.’

  Her mother came inside and stood watching her for a moment or two. Helen could feel that she was searching inside herself for the right thing to say. Something helpful, something comforting. Something that would make things right.

  For a brief instant she looked up from her task and met her mother’s gaze but there was nothing to be said. No help, no hope, no means of comforting. Her mother was the first to break the contact and with a sigh she turned away.

  Please, God, don’t let them find him, Helen prayed, silently this time. Please, God, let him have run fast and hard and your angels be guarding him. Let him have got away.

  FORTY-ONE

  Johnstone did not speak, either to the dogs or their handler or to the straggling pack of children and younger folk who kept pace with the hunters for the first mile or so before growing bored or tired or aware of the chores they had left undone and would be punished for neglecting. One by one they dropped away or turned back.

  He did not once slacken pace and he did not seem tired, either. When the handler paused for a brief moment for the dogs to check the trace and mop the sweat that ran into his eyes, Johnstone didn’t show any signs of fatigue or of being affected by the heat.

  They found the ditch where Ethan had lain asleep, followed his steps across the next field and out on to the road.

  The dogs milled and circled, checking the trail now filled with fresh scents of car and lorry, horse and van and walker. Then their leader gave voice, his pack confirmed his findings and they were off again.

  Johnstone, a stranger to the area, called out to the handler, ‘Where does this road go?’

  ‘To the coast eventually. My guess is he’ll turn and head out towards Grimsby or Immingham.’

  Johnstone jerked his head in what may have been a nod. ‘Just as we thought,’ he said. ‘The word is already out with the dockyard police. It’s more than likely they’ll have him before the day is through.’

  ‘Maybe,’ the handler agreed. ‘But it’s a fair way, Mister. The dogs can’t be expected to run all that distance. Their hearts are willing an’ all, but …’

 
Johnstone waved his objections aside. ‘Nor would I expect them to. We’ll go on a piece until we’re certain he didn’t take another road, then we’ll turn back.’

  The handler nodded and let the pack have its head. Johnstone paused to look about and get his bearings, taking note of the curve of the road and the topography of hills and fields. Once he had seen a place and committed it to memory he would know it for all time. He made a point of knowing but he felt relieved now, secure in the knowledge that his assumption had been correct and Grimsby was in all likelihood Ethan’s destination. Secure, too, in the expectation that the recently formed dockyard constabulary would be eager to make an arrest and be watching for a young man seeking a fast escape.

  Ethan Samuels would be in his custody very soon, Johnstone thought. Justice would soon be done.

  For Helen, the day dragged its feet. She tried hard to focus on the tasks her mother set her – the washing and the mangling and the pegging of clean linens on to clothes lines that stretched the length of their garden and into the field beyond so that it looked almost like a crop of sheets and shirts ready for the men to harvest. But her thoughts strayed too often to Ethan.

  Her hands were sore from scrubbing stains with the Sunlight soap. Her arms and back ached from the weight of wet cloth and the effort of turning the mangle while her mother took turns at drawing the squeezed cloth through, and her arms and shoulders ached from the many times she had walked to the spring and back. For most of the village the piped spring known as Peter’s spout was the one reliable source of water.

  For the most part, they worked in silence. What was there to say? The task was so utterly familiar it required neither instruction nor discussion and to speak of what was uppermost in the minds of both women … that was unthinkable.

  From time to time, Helen snatched a glance along the road. At any moment she expected to see Inspector Johnstone and the bloodhounds returning with Ethan chained or bound, leashed like the dogs.