The Mitford Murders Read online

  As we were told it, it was clear to DM that the ammunition would have to be moved at night so as to remain under cover of darkness, but the battle never lets up and the goods must be taken right across the town in the line of fire. There is no other route to take that would be quick enough. The constant need for munitions means the trip must be done not only every night but twice a night. DM decided that the method he would take would be to load the horses up, then ride them through the town at high speed – in the darkness, through the streets, as shells are thrown and guns are fired.

  There is more.

  Each night, to spread the risk, DM has decreed that a different soldier will take a load each time. But he, himself – father of five children, possible heir to the barony, an older brother already dead, missing a lung himself – will go every time. It sends shivers all through me to think of it. Every night, twice a night, he and his men ride their horses across town. So far he has been successful and not yet lost a single man. But how long will this battle last? We do not know and I fear for him each night, as we all do. The men say he is a good man.

  That said, they are almost all good men. None of them deserve the terrible fates that they have been given.

  I must stop here. I have a few hours of leave and am planning to take a walk in the bluebell woods not far from here. I’ll be alone and will enjoy the time in a place of beauty to sit and think of you. Remember our picnic in the bluebells three years ago? I hope you are keeping yourself as safe as you can. I know my tales of woe are as nothing to yours and you are the bravest one I ever knew.

  Most tender love,

  Flo

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Guy and Harry began their search for the brown suit and stolen jewellery in the pawnshops and second-hand clothiers of Lewes. Guy was ebullient; he felt like a proper policeman at last. In the second pawnshop, the seedy man behind the counter who hadn’t bothered to wash his shirt since Christmas, if the stains under his arms were anything to go by, laughed in their faces. ‘Why,’ he wheezed, ‘would someone who’d made off with diamonds and cash pawn a suit? He wouldn’t even get two shillings for it if he came in here.’ Guy had blustered that it was one way to get rid of the evidence but the man just carried on wheezing and laughing, thumping himself in the chest, and the two of them had walked out fast. In one second-hand shop, they were shown a huge pile of men’s clothes that had been handed in since the date of the attack, and holding their noses they had sorted through what was unquestionably a dead man’s wardrobe – including, presumably, the pyjamas he had died in – that had not yet been laundered despite the evidence of a heavy Woodbines habit.

  Still, Guy encouraged Harry to press on. When they had run out of places to check in Lewes, they called it a day. They would get the train back to London, then come back down again in the morning to try places in Bexhill and Polegate.

  ‘It’s unlikely the man will have got off at Polegate, seeing as the railway workers got on there,’ said Guy, ‘but we’ve got to try.’

  Harry was less enthusiastic, but at least it was a day off from the usual routine, he said.

  Guy did his best to rally him round. ‘If we solve this,’ he reminded him, ‘we’ll get promoted. Maybe even Scotland Yard.’

  Nevertheless, in spite of their efforts, the next few days proved just as hopeless for Harry and Guy, and no suit or jewels that matched the description turned up anywhere. DI Vine had decided to make a tour of the seaside boarding houses and found an abandoned brown suit but analysis by the investigation’s pathologist found no bloodstains. There was a commotion when a soldier turned himself in and confessed to murdering a woman on a train, but a brief interview at Scotland Yard was enough for them to ascertain that he had nothing to do with it. He was handed back to the army as a deserter.

  At least the second inquest came around fast after that. Everyone was present as before: the coroner; the deputy; police from all three forces; their solicitors and the eleven jurors. This time, more witnesses were to be interviewed, as well as Dr Spilsbury, which was thrilling to Guy.

  ‘He’s the one who identified the decaying dead body in Dr Crippen’s basement as his wife,’ he said to Harry, who in return told him to calm down.

  First to be interviewed was Mabel Rogers, still dressed in deepest black. Guy noticed that this time she was not accompanied by a nurse, though the man was with her again, looking no less shabby than before. She wore no wedding ring, so he could not have been her husband, but he was clearly providing her with comfort. They looked to each other frequently and when she hesitated on the stand, she seemed to gain confidence in her voice after a reassuring nod from him. She was asked by the coroner to repeat some of the points she had made last time concerning the man who had come into the carriage.

  ‘I’ve already said everything I can remember,’ said Miss Rogers. ‘He was wearing a brownish tweed suit of mixed and light material. I did not notice the kind of hat he wore but he had no overcoat. I do not think he had any luggage, but he might have had a small bag. He must have been about twenty-eight or thirty years old and he was clean-shaven.’

  ‘What class of person was he, do you think?’

  ‘A clerk, or something like that,’ she replied.

  ‘How much money do you think Miss Shore had with her on the journey?’ asked the coroner.

  ‘About three pounds, I think,’ said Miss Rogers. ‘We had been shopping together that morning and she had said that she must not spend any more or she would not have enough for the journey.’

  ‘Can you tell us any more about her appearance? What jewellery was she wearing?’

  ‘She was wearing a new fur coat and looked nicely dressed. I expect that the assailant thought she was well-off. She usually wore two rings with diamonds set in them and a gold wristlet watch.’

  Guy was rapt. He had been at two or three coroners’ inquests when someone had jumped before a train, but he had never heard a murder inquiry before. Not just any murder, either. This was sensational: a woman on a train, no weapon found, no suspect arrested. The court was packed with reporters again, scribbling furiously in their notebooks.

  After Miss Rogers was dismissed, an engineer was called up to show the plans for Lewes station, with an explanation as to why those passengers sitting in the rear two carriages would have either to wait for the train to move up for them to disembark or jump on to the tracks, as those frequently did who had failed to ask the guard or were too impatient to wait.

  Then Harry nudged Guy in the ribs. The coroner had just called George Clout, the first of the railway men who had discovered Florence Shore and raised the alarm at Bexhill station. Harry and Guy had been present during the interviews with the men immediately after the discovery but perhaps the coroner would prompt a confession. It had been known to happen – the presence of a jury and the severity of the court could frighten anyone into the truth. At the moment, these men were their only suspects.

  Clout confirmed that on that day he had been working at Hampden Park Railway. He had joined two men he knew, William Ransom and Ernest Thomas, to catch the 5 p.m. train from Polegate Junction to Bexhill. They had boarded the last compartment; he and Thomas sat with their backs to the engine, while Ransom sat on the same side as Miss Shore.

  The coroner began his questions: ‘Did you notice a lady there?’

  ‘I saw someone there in the further right-hand corner facing the engine,’ said Clout, taking his hands out of his pocket when he started speaking.

  ‘Was it dark when you got into the compartment?’

  ‘Nearly.’

  ‘How was it lighted?’

  ‘Poorly lighted.’

  ‘Incandescent gas, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘After you sat down you saw somebody?’

  ‘After about ten minutes, after we had gone about a mile, I noticed the person was a lady.’

  ‘How was she sitting?’

  ‘Leaning back, with her head on the padded back.’


  ‘Did you notice her hands?’

  ‘I could not see her hands, they were under the corner of her coat.’

  ‘Were her feet on the floor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did you next look at her?’

  ‘About halfway between Polegate and Pevensey.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘I saw there was something wrong with her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘From the position she was in.’

  ‘What next?’

  ‘I could see blood on her face.’

  ‘Fresh blood?’

  ‘I could not say.’

  ‘Was there much?’

  ‘There was a lot.’

  ‘Was it running down?’

  ‘I could not say.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I said to Ransom that something is wrong with that lady in the corner. I think I said, “She has had a nasty knock of some kind”. He did not seem to hear what I said. He had a cold.’

  ‘Did you speak to Thomas?’

  ‘No.’ Clout shifted on his feet. He did not seem comfortable in such a formal setting, to say the least.

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I didn’t say anything further about it until we got to Bexhill.’

  ‘Did you do anything?’

  ‘No, sir. Not until we got to Bexhill.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I did not think it was so serious.’

  ‘Did you notice whether the lady was breathing?’

  ‘Yes, she was, and she appeared to be reading.’

  ‘Were her eyes open?’

  ‘They kept opening and closing.’

  ‘Spasmodically?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Guy noticed Miss Rogers looking upset during this exchange, bending her head to fidget with the bag on her lap and pulling at loose threads on her coat. She may have been an experienced nurse but it couldn’t have been pleasant to hear about her friend’s injuries, and to realise that she had tried but failed to raise an alarm for help. It was also rather extraordinary that these men did not appear to have been more concerned at the time. Clout said he had noticed no blood in the compartment, nor did he mention any other signs of a disturbance. The other two men merely corroborated what Clout had said.

  The train guards were called to give evidence and George Walters was sworn in. If Clout’s testimony had been disturbing, Walters’ was worse.

  ‘She was sitting in a sloping position facing the engine,’ he began. ‘Her head was back on the padding and her legs were pushed forwards and showing to the knees, because she had slipped down. Her hands were in front of her and her fingers kept moving. She put one hand up several times, her fingers moved, and she appeared to be looking at her hands.’

  A second train guard, Henry Duck, also spoke. He had been on the train from Victoria and was alerted to the trouble by Clout at Bexhill. It was Duck who had decided that she needed to be taken to the nearest hospital in Hastings. A phone call was made from Bexhill to arrange an ambulance at the next station. Mr Duck also remembered seeing a man jump down from the end of the carriage at Lewes on that fateful Monday afternoon and make his way along the platform, but it was dark and he had not caught much sight of him. As it had been a dark night and there were no lights at the station, he had only seen him by the light of his lamp.

  Could this have been the attacker? There were two compartments at the back, one of which had carried the nearly dead Miss Shore, and the man might have jumped out of either of them. Where did he go afterwards? None of the staff at the station had noticed him but there was no reason to, especially if the man had a train ticket and could exit through the barrier in the normal way.

  Guy felt Harry shift impatiently beside him; it was almost teatime. Harry was ruled by his stomach and looked forward to his daily slice of cake. Guy felt not a single hunger pang, not when he knew Dr Spilsbury was the next witness.

  The coroner called the doctor to the stand. He was a good-looking man and his eyes were clear and bright. He wore a suit of a sharp cut with a flower in the buttonhole, his hair neatly parted and combed absolutely flat. In precise tones he described Miss Shore’s injuries, inspected the day after her death. Guy did not understand the biological details but he knew enough to grasp that there were three wounds on her head, which had caused extensive bleeding all over the brain.

  ‘Cause of death?’ asked the coroner.

  ‘Coma due to the fracture of the skull and injury to the brain,’ said Dr Spilsbury.

  ‘What do you consider the cause?’

  ‘They were caused by very severe blows by a heavy instrument having a fairly large striking surface.’

  ‘Would a revolver cause it?’

  ‘Yes, the butt end of a revolver of an ordinary size.’

  ‘Can you form any idea how many blows were struck?’

  ‘At least three, there might have been more.’

  ‘Would any of them cause unconsciousness?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think after one of these blows, the lady could have seated herself in the position she was found?’

  ‘No. She must have been struck sitting down or placed in the position by her assailant. She could not have placed herself in that position had she been standing up.’

  This was very interesting, thought Guy: whomever had hit her had subsequently sat her up and placed the newspaper on her lap, though they forgot the broken specs on the floor, unless they had slid off when the train moved. For whatever reason, the attacker wanted it to take a while for anyone who got into the carriage later to notice that something was wrong with Miss Shore. Why would this be? Guy wanted to think about this more but pulled himself back to the inquest.

  Dr Spilsbury continued to answer more questions in his calm, methodical voice. He confirmed that the weapon had penetrated the brain and that this weapon could not have been an ordinary walking stick, nor could she have been injured by being struck while leaning her head out of the window. He believed she had been attacked while sitting down. He had seen, he said, no signs of a struggle apart from bruising on the tip of her tongue. There was one final question.

  ‘Was there any indication of an attempt to ravish the deceased?’ asked the coroner, even more sombrely than before.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Dr Spilsbury.

  Miss Rogers must have been relieved to hear this. The inquest was almost over, bar brief interviews with local doctors. The coroner summed up the position and the jury returned their verdict a few minutes later. Despite all efforts by the police to find the attacker, Florence Nightingale Shore had been murdered by a person unknown.

  Afterwards, in a bar a few doors down from the court, Jarvis, Haigh and Vine sank their disappointment along with a few beers. Guy and Harry, keenly aware they were still on duty and sitting with their superiors, nursed glasses of ginger ale. They barely spoke but listened in on the conversation, which touched on the case very little, much to Guy’s disappointment. At one point, Vine muttered something about it being a random robbery, she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, it was most likely some desperate former soldier, to which Haigh and Jarvis nodded agreement and drank another large draught.

  Guy’s knee was jiggling up and down in frustration. He waited a minute, then couldn’t help himself and spoke up: ‘If it was a robbery, why did he attack her with such force? She was an old lady, or as good as. He could have just grabbed her jewels and money and made off.’

  The three senior police officers exchanged a knowing look with wry smiles and Vine replied in a tone that made Guy want to rip his moustache off. ‘He might not have meant to kill her, just knock her out. Some of these soldiers forget how strong they are, don’t they? He left her alive, didn’t he? Didn’t make sure he’d finished the job. No, it wasn’t a planned murder. Sorry to disappoint you.’

  Guy said nothing to this. It still didn’t sound quite right to him but he didn’t have the courage
to question a detective inspector.

  Not long after that, Haigh stood up and shrugged on his coat. ‘I’m off, lads. Best of luck. Don’t suppose we’ll be seeing each other again for some time.’

  ‘What do you mean? What happens now?’ said Guy, ignoring a glare from Jarvis.

  Haigh tipped his hat up. ‘Nothing, sonny. Unless someone comes forward, we’ve pursued all the avenues. Case closed as far as you’re concerned. I’d look for something else to shine your torch on if I was you.’ With that, he chuckled, pushed open the door and was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Nancy stepped out of a cab and started to walk towards the entrance to Victoria station. Louisa backed out of the car next, holding on to Decca, who had her fat arms tight around her neck. She tried to crane her head around to the striding figure. ‘Miss Nancy! Wait!’

  Nancy stopped and threw her hands up in the air. ‘We’re going to miss it!’

  Louisa said nothing as she held out a hand for Unity, who was next out, her face at its most serious. Diana, her blond hair shining in the midday sun, was last, much to Nancy’s clear irritation. She asked Diana if she was a tortoise and mimicked a head drawing into a shell, which Diana simply ignored.

  A second taxi had pulled up close behind them and soon disgorged Nanny Blor with Pamela and Tom. Although they had left behind the thrilling signs of spring in the country – lambs leaping in the fields, daffodils pooling at the edges, like broken egg yolks – there was a sharpness to the air in deepest London. Green leaves were budding on the trees and there was enough blue sky to make a sailor’s suit. A gust of wind blew up suddenly, almost knocking Louisa’s hat off.

  This was not a journey she had wanted to make, the return to London, to Victoria station and then the Brighton line. She had slept fitfully for the last week, drifting in and out of dreams where she was being chased, feeling Stephen close enough for his hot breath on her neck, only to find Unity had crept into bed with her and was snuggled into her back, sighing deeply.