A Dreadful Murder by Minette Walters

‘So who’s the loudmouth in the corner? He seems to have a down on anyone connected to the case.’
    The landlord flicked a cloth across the bar. ‘John Farrell. He’s only saying what he believes. Nothing wrong with that.’
    ‘Until he incites a lynch mob to hang the Major-General from the nearest tree,’ Taylor replied, flicking a glance at the big man who was holding court at the far table. Whenever he spoke, the lesser men around him listened. ‘What’s his problem with Luard? Why is he so hostile?’
    ‘Same as the rest of us . . . reckons the old brute is getting away with murder.’
    ‘Except brutality doesn’t come out of nowhere. Did the Major-General make a habit of assaulting his wife? Does he beat his servants when they annoy him?’
    A hush fell over the room as if the other drinkers had decided to listen. The landlord shrugged. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’
    ‘No,’ Taylor agreed. ‘They seem quite fond of him. It makes you wonder what his wife could have done that made him angry enough to shoot her.’
    ‘He was bored with her.’
    Taylor used his finger to wipe a trickle of froth from the side of his glass. ‘But why blow her brains out so close to home?’ he asked mildly. ‘If he’d waited a few days until they were on holiday, he could have pushed her off a cliff. Everyone would have believed it was an accident.’
    There was a brief silence before John Farrell’s voice broke in from the corner. ‘He wouldn’t have had the Chief Constable’s help in any other county.’
    With a lazy smile, Taylor turned towards him. ‘If that were true, I wouldn’t be here, Mr Farrell,’ he said. ‘You can’t have it both ways. If Henry Warde was trying to protect his friend, he wouldn’t have called in Scotland Yard.’
    The man spat on the floor. ‘You don’t know your arse from your elbow, mate. If you did, you’d have arrested the old bugger by now.’
    His words were greeted with a snigger by the other men at his table.
    Taylor eyed him for a moment then took out his tobacco pouch and calmly rolled a cigarette. ‘It’s quite a campaign you’ve got going against the Major-General,’ he murmured, running the edge of the paper across his tongue. ‘Did you start it or are you just mouthing someone else’s ideas?’
    ‘None of your business. It’s a free country. I can say what I like when I like.’
    Taylor lit a match and held it to the tip of his cigarette. ‘Even when you’re wrong? What if I say
you
killed Mrs Luard and you’re putting the blame on the Major-General to avoid being hanged yourself?’
    ‘You’d get my fist in your face.’
    Taylor shook out the match and flipped it onto the counter. ‘You have a bad temper, my friend. Do you lash out at everyone who annoys you?’
    ‘I don’t take lip if that’s what you mean. No man does.’ Farrell dropped a wink at one of his friends. ‘Except for the nancy boys at Scotland Yard who think they’re the cat’s bloody whiskers in their smart coats and pretty hats.’
    Taylor blew a smoke ring into the air. ‘You’re a big man. I doubt you’re challenged very often.’
    ‘That’s the truth of it. Do you fancy your chances?’
    Taylor shook his head. ‘I see too much violence in my job . . . and it’s usually aimed at women. The only way a stupid man can control his wife is by using her as a punchbag. We see a lot of that in the poorer parts of London.’
    Farrell’s face turned a dark red. ‘What are you implying?’
    ‘That the most likely type to have killed Mrs Luard is a drunken brute who makes a habit of beating women. He enjoys the power it gives him to see the fear in their eyes.’ Taylor smiled slightly. ‘Would you say that’s a good description of Major-General Luard?’
    The question was greeted with silence.
    Taylor pulled his hat from his pocket and pushed out the crown before placing it on his head. ‘Give my regards to your wife and ask her to expect me later today. Shall we say five