An Air That Kills (11 page)

With the skill born of long practice, Thornhill gently slipped an interruption into the flow of words: ‘I understand you know a lot about Victorian Lydmouth, sir.'

‘Yes.' The major blinked, needing a few seconds to adjust to the change of subject. He took another sip of whisky. ‘Yes, Charlotte told me you want to pick my brains about those bones.' His pale, red-rimmed eyes glanced down at Thornhill and back to the glass in his hand; the action was natural enough, but the speed with which it was accomplished gave it a furtive air. ‘I asked her where they'd been found, and when she said the Rose in Hand I said to myself, “Ah, I know what that means.”'

‘Indeed? What does it mean?'

‘Sounds remarkably like the apprentice work of Amelia Rushwick.'

Thornhill took out his notebook. ‘I'm afraid you'll have to make allowances for my ignorance, sir.'

‘Eh? Not a local man, are you? Where do you come from?'

‘Cambridgeshire. But my wife has local connections.'

‘Very glad to hear it. I'm all for people staying where they belong. Roots, you know, whatever people say, they're important. Yes, well – be that as it may. Where was I?'

‘Amelia Rushwick, sir.'

‘Let me see. Give me a moment to get my thoughts straight.'

The major swallowed some more neat whisky. He shook a cigarette out of the packet on the mantelpiece and lit it with a spill. He sat down in the armchair closest to the fire.

Thornhill wondered how soon he could decently get away. It was unlikely that this old soak was going to be able to tell him anything useful. But the signs were that Harcutt would spin out the interview as long as possible, just for the company. No wonder Mrs Wemyss-Brown hadn't invited him to Troy House recently.

‘Did you know that the Rose in Hand was quite a prosperous place once upon a time?'

Thornhill nodded.

‘Went downhill in the nineteenth century. By the 1880s it had a very bad reputation indeed, and that's when the Rushwicks leased it. Can't tell you the dates offhand – I'll check them if you want – but I think their tenancy began in about 1884 and lasted until 1891. In those days the site was owned by the Ruispidge Estate. Of course, that doesn't mean the Rushwicks didn't sublet it. Under the counter, as it were. Difficult to keep track of things when you're trying to pin down that class of person, I find – don't leave many records, you see. Where was I? Yes, the Rose. It had a bit of a reputation. Haunt of vice, you know the sort of thing. Now, the Rushwicks' eldest daughter was called Amelia. Amelia Rushwick: name mean anything to you?'

‘No, sir.'

Major Harcutt looked around. He lowered his voice and leant forward: ‘Sex mad.'

He leant back to watch the effect of his words on his visitor. Thornhill merely looked expectantly at him. Harcutt swallowed twice and smoothed his moustache.

‘She was born in 1870,' he went on, speaking more rapidly than before. ‘Grew up in Lydmouth, must have lived with her parents at the Rose in Hand. Then she went off to London in the late eighties – almost certainly with a man. Once she got there, she found her own level soon enough. Afterwards, when she was arrested, her parents claimed they'd thrown her out of the Rose. But they would, wouldn't they? If you ask me it was a case of the pot calling the kettle black.'

Harcutt fell silent. He dabbed at his lips, looking first at the empty glass and then at the bureau where the bottle stood beside the tray of poppies.

‘Anyway,' he went on, ‘there were only two things Amelia could do and she did them both. She became a part-time barmaid and part-time prostitute. More the latter than the former, I'll be bound. Saw women like that when I was in the army sometimes. All ages, all sorts and conditions, too – colonel's lady or Judy O'Grady – natural tarts.'

He sucked in his cheeks and turned the glass round in his hands. His watery eyes stared into the past and seemed to find it fascinating.

‘What happened next?' Thornhill asked.

‘She met this man Ferrano. Half-Italian. Sold ice cream, I shouldn't wonder. Anyway you know what these wops are like. Amelia fell in love with him, or so she claimed. Then Ferrano said he was going back to Italy. And Amelia said she wanted to go too. Trouble was, she had twins by a previous liaison. She had them fostered most of the time, but that cost money. They were about three years old. Ferrano said they couldn't come back to Italy, oh, no. He put his foot down. Didn't want someone else's little bastards in tow. Got plenty of his own, no doubt.' The major's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. ‘So she smothered them. Poor little beggars.'

‘She smothered her own children?'

‘Yes – that's what I'm telling you. Just to be with this Italian fancy man of hers. Makes your blood run cold, doesn't it?'

Harcutt struggled to his feet, scattering cigarette ash on the carpet. His face was much redder than it had been before. Supporting himself with one hand first on the mantelpiece and then on the wall, he made his way towards the bureau.

‘Sure you won't join me?'

‘No, thank you, sir.'

Harcutt sat down heavily on the chair in front of the bureau. With great deliberation he refilled his glass and took another sip. ‘You could understand a foreigner doing that sort of thing but not a British girl. She told everyone she'd packed them off to another foster home. But the landlady got suspicious. They were behind with the rent. There'd been words. Anyway the landlady complained to the police, and they finally dug up the garden. And there were the children. Still in their nightgowns.'

‘This must have made quite a stir at the time. Do you know of an account of the case I could look up?'

‘Any amount of them.' Harcutt picked up the bottle and studied the label. ‘You know the
Notable British Trials
series? It's in there. I'll find you the reference before you go.'

Thornhill felt sorry for Amelia, sorrier for her children. He wondered whether Ferrano had pulled the strings. And talking of strings: ‘What happened to her?'

‘Oh, she was hanged, of course. Last thing she said on the scaffold was that Ferrano had nothing to do with it. Ferrano was a witness for the prosecution, would you believe. Even so, there she was, ready to meet her Maker, and she was still so besotted with the man that she wanted to do her best by him. Extraordinary, isn't it?'

‘It is extraordinary.'

Thornhill scribbled in his notebook. Major Harcutt cleared his throat so vigorously that the phlegm rattled in his chest. Absently he uncorked the bottle and refreshed his glass. His method of imparting information had been idiosyncratic, but he'd provided plenty of material. Presumably, too, he would not have had time to look up the case because Mrs Wemyss-Brown had only just told him about the bones found at the Rose in Hand.

‘You've got an impressive memory, sir.'

‘Eh? Oh, I looked into the case a few months ago for my book. Did I tell you I'm writing a book? The history of Lydmouth in the nineteenth century. Fascinating. Let me see if I can get you the reference.'

Harcutt put down his glass, opened a drawer and pulled out a file. He flicked through its contents, grunting impatiently as he failed to find what he wanted.

Thornhill thought about the nature of Amelia Rushwick's relationship with Ferrano. If Harcutt's version of the facts was accurate, she must have loved him with an intensity that most people only read about – either that or she had been mad. How had Ferrano felt about being the object of such overwhelming devotion? Thornhill wondered whether the twins had felt pain and whether death was in fact preferable to life for children in their situation in the slums of Victorian London. Superintendent Williamson was going to be very unhappy about the CID wasting their time on a possible victim of a Victorian murderer.

‘Here we are, Inspector.
Notable British Trials
, volume 49, edited by Harry Hodge and published in London. They've got a copy in the library in town. Not on the open shelves, of course. You have to ask for it.'

Thornhill took down the details. He shut his notebook and stood up. ‘This has been very useful, sir. I don't think I need take up any more of your time.'

‘It might not have been Amelia's baby,' Harcutt went on, the muscles in his cheeks making chewing motions as he spoke. ‘Mustn't jump to conclusions. In those days there were an awful lot of unmarried mothers in the working classes. Barely better than animals, some of them. I imagine a lot of them disposed of their young in what we would consider a rather unorthodox way.'

‘Yes, sir.' Thornhill put the notebook in his overcoat and picked up his hat from the sofa.

‘The Rose in Hand is just the place you'd expect them to do it, too. Lot of people coming and going. Sort of place where I imagine you didn't ask too many questions. Still, it is tempting to think of it as Amelia's. There's a certain neatness to it.'

‘Quite.'

‘Might be a footnote for my book in this. Tell me, was anything else found with – ah – the bones? Something that might help identify where they came from? Or when, of course. If you could pin it down to the late eighties, for example, you'd strengthen the theory.'

Thornhill took his first tentative step towards the door. ‘I should have made clear from the start that we're not even absolutely sure that they
are
human bones. We should have a laboratory report within a day or two. But Dr Bayswater thinks it very possible that they are.'

‘Ah, Bayswater.' The major sniffed. ‘He's my doctor.'

‘The site had been rather disturbed. Rats had got in. After all, it was originally a privy.' Thornhill watched the major's face and saw the skin puckering horizontally along the forehead. He wondered whether the old man were wincing. He thought probably not. ‘We only have a few bones. We also found a scrap of newspaper and a brooch.'

‘Victorian?'

‘Mrs Wemyss-Brown believes the newspaper comes from the
Gazette
, probably in the late nineteenth century. We're following up that line.'

‘What sort of brooch?'

‘It's in the form of a true love's knot.'

Harcutt grunted. He put one hand on the bureau and levered himself to his feet. He peered at the mantelpiece. Thornhill guessed he was looking for his cigarettes.

‘I suppose you can check the hallmark on the silver,' the major went on. ‘I mean, if they go together, the bones can't be earlier than the date of the brooch.'

As he was speaking, he took a step towards the mantelpiece. His jacket snagged on the wooden arm of the chair causing him to stumble forward and lose his balance. The glass flew from his hand and smashed on the tiles in front of the fireplace. He flung out his right arm towards the top of the bureau in a desperate attempt to save himself. Instead, his fingers closed on the tray with the poppies. The tray tipped. The poppies sprayed into the air and pattered on to the carpet. Meanwhile, the major fell against the side of the sofa which caught his thigh halfway between waist and knee. He would have toppled forward had Thornhill not put out an arm to save him.

‘Steady, sir.'

Harcutt looked shrivelled and insubstantial, but his body was heavy and solid. Thornhill helped him to the chair by the fire. The old man, breathing heavily, stared glumly at the gleaming dark stains among the ash, the fragments of glass and the cigarette ends in front of the fireplace. His colour had heightened and he was trembling.

‘Bloody hell. Waste of good whisky.'

‘Is there anyone I can fetch, sir? Your daughter?'

Harcutt shook his head. ‘She doesn't live here now. Pass me a cigarette, would you, there's a good fellow.' His voice came in little jerks and spasms. ‘See that cupboard on the right of the sideboard. Find another glass in there.'

Once Harcutt's cigarette was safely alight, Thornhill crossed the room and opened the cupboard in the sideboard. Rank after rank of ornate glasses stretched away into the darkness, enough for a twelve-course dinner party in the last century, with each course accompanied by a different wine. On the shelf below was more tarnished silver. Thornhill took out a water tumbler. It was larger than the whisky glass had been, but he doubted if Harcutt would mind.

‘It needs a wash, sir.'

‘Eh?'

‘I need to wash the glass,' Thornhill said more loudly. ‘It's filthy.'

‘All right, I can hear. There's a bog in the hall. Second door on the left.'

Thornhill left the room. In the hall, the dog looked at him and began to growl deep in her throat. The growls increased in volume as Thornhill drew nearer. He went into the lavatory and washed the glass in a basin brown with grime. The only towel was much the same colour as the basin so he dried the glass on his handkerchief. Though the window was several inches open, the room smelt badly. He glanced into the lavatory bowl and looked quickly away.

He pulled the chain and went back to Harcutt. The old man's eyes were full of tears, but he watched attentively as Thornhill poured two fingers of Scotch into the glass.

‘Good man,' Harcutt wheezed as he took the glass.

‘Are you all right?' Thornhill hesitated, fighting the temptation not to get involved any further than he already was. ‘Would you like me to fetch a doctor?'

Harcutt swallowed a third of the whisky. ‘I'm perfectly all right. Fit as a fiddle, really. Such a lot of fuss about nothing. Don't mean to seem ungrateful, but I'm fine.'

Thornhill shrugged. He knelt down on the hearth rug and began to pick up the fragments of glass one by one and put them in a pile on the hearth.