more likely to have done it than the Major-General.’
‘Someone like John Farrell, perhaps?’
Cook made a scornful noise in her throat. ‘It’s a miracle his wife’s still alive,’ she said. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work, and his son’s just as bad.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Will Farrell? Seventeen . . . eighteen. He goes out poaching with Michael Blaine from Stone Street. They’re as vicious as snakes and as idle as the day is long.’
Chapter Ten
Friday, 4 September 1908 –
Ightham, afternoon
Taylor made his way to Miss Amy Pegg’s house in the High Street. She was the ‘bitter old spinster’ of Jane Pugmore’s list, and Taylor understood why when he realised how lonely the woman was.
She invited him into her parlour and he wished he had his constable with him. There was something slightly mad about the way the woman behaved. One minute she was cowering away, the next she was flashing her eyes at him like an ageing flirt.
He wondered if her mind had gone, because she seemed to think he wanted to hear her life story. She told him rambling tales about growing up in Ightham, claiming Charles Luard had been her ‘childhood sweetheart’ before Caroline had stolen him away.
She seemed unaware that the Luards had been married for thirteen years before they moved to Ightham Knoll, and that neither of them had lived in Kent before.
But it wasn’t until she claimed she was giving ‘dear Charles’ all the help she could ‘at this difficult time’ that Taylor held up his hand. ‘We both know that’s not true, Miss Pegg. The only people helping him are his close friends and servants.’
Her face became spiteful. ‘You mean Henry Warde, I suppose. He’d say black was white to protect Charles.’
‘That’s not true either,’ said Taylor. ‘You might as well accuse the police from Scotland Yard of not doing their job properly. Are you accusing
me
, Miss Pegg?’
She wrapped her arms across her thin chest. ‘I don’t know who you are,’ she whined. ‘You’re a bully. I’m afraid of you.’
Taylor took the hate letters from his pocket. ‘The only bullies round here are people who write poison like this. Do you want to explain why you’re one of them?’
She stared at him with mad-looking eyes. ‘I’m doing God’s work.’
* * *
Taylor was left with a nasty taste in his mouth. All he’d done was pry into the misery of an unhappy woman. He had no better luck with the next person on Jane’s list – the secret sherry guzzler.
She was fat and florid, slurred her words and told him she knew for a fact that Caroline Luard had gone to the summer house to meet a younger lover. The Major-General followed in secret and shot his wife out of jealousy when he caught her ‘at it’.
Taylor didn’t believe this sexual fantasy any more than he believed that Miss Pegg had been Charles’s childhood sweetheart. There would have been two bodies on the veranda floor if Luard had fired his gun in the heat of anger. It was a rare husband who killed his wife but spared his rival.
As Superintendent Taylor emerged into the fresh air, he made a mental note to listen the next time his wife told him she was bored and wanted a job. It clearly wasn’t healthy to sit alone with nothing to do all day.
The irony of that thought hit him when he reached John Farrell’s door at five o’clock. The woman who opened it looked very ill, but not from under-work, he thought. She had a yellow bruise around one of her eyes, and was surrounded by half-starved, pale-faced children.
Taylor didn’t need the smell of wet washing in the tiny house, or the sheets hanging on the line outside, to tell him she took in laundry for a living. The only time her hands were out of water, he guessed, was when she was asleep.
He explained who he was and asked if her husband was at home. Mrs Farrell nodded to a curtained alcove in the corner of the room. ‘It’s best not to wake him.’
‘He knows I’m coming.’
‘Don’t
‘Someone like John Farrell, perhaps?’
Cook made a scornful noise in her throat. ‘It’s a miracle his wife’s still alive,’ she said. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work, and his son’s just as bad.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Will Farrell? Seventeen . . . eighteen. He goes out poaching with Michael Blaine from Stone Street. They’re as vicious as snakes and as idle as the day is long.’
Chapter Ten
Friday, 4 September 1908 –
Ightham, afternoon
Taylor made his way to Miss Amy Pegg’s house in the High Street. She was the ‘bitter old spinster’ of Jane Pugmore’s list, and Taylor understood why when he realised how lonely the woman was.
She invited him into her parlour and he wished he had his constable with him. There was something slightly mad about the way the woman behaved. One minute she was cowering away, the next she was flashing her eyes at him like an ageing flirt.
He wondered if her mind had gone, because she seemed to think he wanted to hear her life story. She told him rambling tales about growing up in Ightham, claiming Charles Luard had been her ‘childhood sweetheart’ before Caroline had stolen him away.
She seemed unaware that the Luards had been married for thirteen years before they moved to Ightham Knoll, and that neither of them had lived in Kent before.
But it wasn’t until she claimed she was giving ‘dear Charles’ all the help she could ‘at this difficult time’ that Taylor held up his hand. ‘We both know that’s not true, Miss Pegg. The only people helping him are his close friends and servants.’
Her face became spiteful. ‘You mean Henry Warde, I suppose. He’d say black was white to protect Charles.’
‘That’s not true either,’ said Taylor. ‘You might as well accuse the police from Scotland Yard of not doing their job properly. Are you accusing
me
, Miss Pegg?’
She wrapped her arms across her thin chest. ‘I don’t know who you are,’ she whined. ‘You’re a bully. I’m afraid of you.’
Taylor took the hate letters from his pocket. ‘The only bullies round here are people who write poison like this. Do you want to explain why you’re one of them?’
She stared at him with mad-looking eyes. ‘I’m doing God’s work.’
* * *
Taylor was left with a nasty taste in his mouth. All he’d done was pry into the misery of an unhappy woman. He had no better luck with the next person on Jane’s list – the secret sherry guzzler.
She was fat and florid, slurred her words and told him she knew for a fact that Caroline Luard had gone to the summer house to meet a younger lover. The Major-General followed in secret and shot his wife out of jealousy when he caught her ‘at it’.
Taylor didn’t believe this sexual fantasy any more than he believed that Miss Pegg had been Charles’s childhood sweetheart. There would have been two bodies on the veranda floor if Luard had fired his gun in the heat of anger. It was a rare husband who killed his wife but spared his rival.
As Superintendent Taylor emerged into the fresh air, he made a mental note to listen the next time his wife told him she was bored and wanted a job. It clearly wasn’t healthy to sit alone with nothing to do all day.
The irony of that thought hit him when he reached John Farrell’s door at five o’clock. The woman who opened it looked very ill, but not from under-work, he thought. She had a yellow bruise around one of her eyes, and was surrounded by half-starved, pale-faced children.
Taylor didn’t need the smell of wet washing in the tiny house, or the sheets hanging on the line outside, to tell him she took in laundry for a living. The only time her hands were out of water, he guessed, was when she was asleep.
He explained who he was and asked if her husband was at home. Mrs Farrell nodded to a curtained alcove in the corner of the room. ‘It’s best not to wake him.’
‘He knows I’m coming.’
‘Don’t
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