Where to start? Henry wondered the following morning as he surveyed Sarah Downham’s belongings.
Considering that a trunk full of clothes was the least likely to produce anything of interest, he opened this first, just to get it out of the way, and one by one laid the garments out on the desk, checking pockets and linings and anywhere that a young woman might have concealed a letter or anything else of interest. Once he was satisfied that the trunk had nothing to offer, he replaced the clothes inside and pushed it back into the corner of the cramped office.
The first box he selected was full of books. These were mostly academic but with a few classics and even the odd romantic novel. The academic books – history, mathematics, basic science – had obviously been used for study and were annotated in the margins, but there was nothing of interest from Henry’s point of view. Likewise, the novels and what looked to be unread classics. Odd pages remained uncut, Henry noticed, smooth, folded edges standing out amongst the deckled ones. Inscriptions on the title page revealed that they had originally belonged to Sarah’s mother, although it seemed she hadn’t read them either, presumably Thackeray and Dickens not being to her taste. The Iliad had the look of a volume that had never even had its cover cracked.
Henry replaced them in the box and turned to the next, which revealed a selection of feminine accessories. Scarves and gloves and ribbons and handkerchiefs. He was about to discard this, too, when he noticed a man’s handkerchief amongst the rest, its size and practicality distinguishing it from the little squares of linen and lace. He took it out and unfolded it. It had been monogrammed with the initials AH. Who is AH? Henry wondered. He replaced the rest of the frippery but set this aside, noting that it was faintly perfumed as though the young woman had scented it or perhaps carried it close to her skin so that it had picked up her own floral aroma. He had noted that her clothes smelt of rosewater and something that was perhaps vanilla.
The next box contained notebooks and loose papers, and Henry was momentarily excited until he realized that these cloth-bound volumes and two little leather-bound books had also belonged to Sarah’s mother. It seemed that she had kept a journal through her teenage years and into the early years of her marriage. He flicked through them quickly, placing them in date order and was struck by the poignancy of the last one which ended on 15 September, two days after the birth of her daughter. In handling the book, he had displaced pressed flowers from the later pages, and he picked them up, intending to replace them. He flicked through idly, looking for the pages they had fallen from and paused, suddenly more interested. It looked as though Sarah had used the blank pages in her mother’s journal for keeping her own notes.
These were intermittent, sometimes days apart, sometimes weeks, and a quick initial glance suggested they were completely innocuous: girlish chatter about days out with friends and thoughts about Christmas and the opportunity to go to the theatre. He set the book aside, placing it beside the handkerchief, and looked through the others to see if she had used blank pages in those as well. She had: endpapers and inside covers were filled with less childish handwriting this time. From the dates, it was evident that Sarah had written these last entries in the year before her death. Perhaps, Henry thought, she was worried about keeping a journal of her own in case her father or her aunt was curious and looked inside. They would have been far less likely to examine something that had been written by another woman, so long before.
He set these aside as well, eager to read what she had written but at the same time also keen to see if there was anything else to find in amongst these boxes.
It interested him greatly that the aunt had told the servants to destroy all of this, including what were surely precious mementoes of Mr Downham’s wife. Would Sarah’s aunt and, more particularly, Sarah’s father not wish to keep her journals, books, memories of a life lost so tragically? Presumably, Mr Downham had grieved for his wife when she had passed. Did he even have a say in the matter of what was kept and what was discarded? Henry wondered. Or was he in agreement with his sister, that these mementoes of past lives, his wife and now his daughter, should be cast aside?
He continued the search, finding exercise books both from school and from home, copybooks from early childhood with samples of handwriting and Sarah’s name, written clumsily over and over again, slowly improving. If I had a child, Henry thought, I would want to keep all of this. Well, perhaps not all of it. Essays on the Trojan wars were perhaps not particularly interesting, and simultaneous equations could get a little boring, but certainly these early examples of a child’s learning. Were they not precious to the average parent? His father would have had no sympathy with such sentimental ideas, Henry knew, but he had long ago given up thinking about his father as a typical parent, preferring Cynthia’s methods of child-rearing and even her husband Albert’s sometimes absent-minded but nevertheless fond attitudes towards his offspring. Albert, it had to be said, was far more interested in his children now that they could actually do things; he had confessed to Henry that he was not a big fan of the baby stage. He found it messy and smelly, and considered it impossible to work out what a crying baby might want, so he had tended to leave that to his wife and nanny, who understood these things. Now that the boys could play cricket on the beach, and he could share science experiments with Melissa, he was far more enthusiastic.
Henry paused. There were plenty of memories of Sarah’s mother, but where were the mementoes from her father and her aunt, the birthday cards, inscribed books perhaps, those little markers of childhood and incipient womanhood? Had they chosen to keep those things, perhaps placing them in an album or a book of remembrance or, as Cynthia and Melissa did, a treasure box?
He continued his search, looking now for anything that might have come from Sarah’s aunt or father, or indeed from her prospective fiancé before she had rejected him in favour of the older and seemingly more exciting Brady Brewer. ‘No,’ Henry said aloud. ‘I don’t think I can believe this.’ The more he got to know Sarah Downham, even in this precarious fashion, the more he struggled to countenance the idea that she had been involved with this older, rougher, more dangerous man.
He had engendered an image of Sarah as a wild child, trying to break free of parental control, but what he was finding was a lonely young woman who confided her thoughts to a diary, but who, it seemed, did so in such a fashion that even these thoughts were hidden. She had seemed not to particularly want to read for pleasure, unless you counted the romances which were well thumbed, but clearly had intelligence if her exercise books were anything to go by.
He went back to the steamer trunk and looked once more at the clothing. Everything was neat and plain and conventional. He thought about the clothes she had been wearing on the night she died, or at least had been wearing when she visited her friend. The brown pleated skirt, a cardigan knitted by her aunt, a white linen blouse. Clothes as boring as a secretary might wear to work. Where were the going-out dresses? The dance dresses, the more daring outfits that a girl of nineteen would want to wear? The yellow dress that Linus Green had described sounded fun and pretty, and now that he thought about it, even the scarves and gloves and stockings he had found in the other box were items he would have expected to belong to an older woman.
While it was true, Henry considered, that a less well-off girl would be likely to wear conventional clothing, to buy for quality and what would last rather than fashion, Sarah Downham was from a family that could afford luxuries. Was her aunt trying to keep her from harm by keeping her plain? Or had she perhaps taken away the fancier clothes as punishment for real or perceived indiscretions? Or was Henry now becoming fanciful?
Logging this thought and promising himself that he would address it later, Henry continued his search.
Sergeant Mickey Hitchens and Inspector Walker were interviewing more of Penelope Soper’s friends, in this instance a young woman by the name of Millicent Gay. They were visiting her at work, in a haberdashery shop, and had promised the rather formidable manageress that they would only take a few minutes of the girl’s time. They had been allowed to withdraw to a back room, obviously used for excess stock, separated from the shop by a curtain. Millicent kept glancing nervously at the gap in the curtain, anxious that she should be seeing to customers. Sympathetic with her anxiety, Mickey kept things short.
The yellow fabric – yes, she remembered Penny sewing the dress, but she hadn’t known who it was for until Sarah turned up one night wearing it. It was, she said, a beautiful dress, with rather a low neckline. ‘Not outrageously low, just lower than she normally wore. Her aunt liked her to be turned out properly.’ She glanced again at the curtain and then leaned forward towards Mickey. ‘I think she got changed at a friend’s house,’ she confided. ‘It would not be the kind of dress that Mrs Forsyth approved of. I heard that her aunt told her to get rid of it and that Sarah had told her she had. Her aunt threatened to cut it up!’
Mickey expressed his shock.
She had no idea about the letter writer and didn’t remember Penny talking about any young man. ‘Hilary might know – Hilary Benson. They were really close. Hilary’s been absolutely devastated by Penny’s murder. Her mother says she might have to get the doctor in to treat her for her nerves.’
She did not recognize the blue dress but speculated that it might be one that Penny had sewn because the stitching looked like hers.
Mickey let her get back to work, and he and Inspector Walker thanked the manageress for her invaluable assistance before they left.
‘Where will we find Hilary Benson?’ he asked Walker.
‘Probably at home. When I spoke to her yesterday, she was indeed prostrate with anxiety and grief. Her parents told me she had been like this since Penny Soper’s death. She was clearly grieving her friend, but she also seemed of a rather nervous disposition. Her mother called her a delicate girl, which in my experience usually describe someone who doesn’t cope very well with life.’
‘I don’t know that any of us would cope very well with our friends being murdered,’ Mickey observed.
Walker conceded the point.
Hilary Benson was a pale girl. Mickey guessed she would have been a pale girl even before this added pain, but the whiteness of her skin and blueness of her lips suggested not just excessive grief but also genuine illness. Perhaps she really was a delicate girl, Mickey thought.
Her mother hovered, offering tea and then fluttering beside the couch, as though reluctant to leave her daughter with these two men, even to fulfil the duties of hospitality. Mickey put her out of her misery by refusing on behalf of both himself and Walker. Something told him that tea served in this house would be as weak and pale as the daughter, and he hated weak tea.
He glanced at Walker who took the hint and asked the mother if he could have a quick word, privately. She retreated with him to the hall but left the door half open. Mickey began to wonder if he really did look so suspicious that he needed supervision. He smiled at Hilary and took the fragment of yellow fabric from his pocket.
‘Do you recognize this? Do you remember Penny sewing this fabric into a dress?’
She took the fabric between both her hands and stroked it gently. She nodded. ‘She made a dress for Sarah. Poor Sarah; they’re both gone now.’ She looked as though she was about to cry, and Mickey carefully took the fabric from her and tucked it back into his pocket before removing the blue dress from the brown paper bundle in which he was carrying it.
‘And this,’ he asked. ‘Do you recognize this dress?’
Again, she nodded. ‘It was Penny’s. Where did you get it?’
It seemed like an odd question, Mickey thought. ‘Where might I have got it from?’ he asked.
‘She said she lost it. It was missing.’
‘Missing from where?’
‘From her work.’
‘At the Wharf?’
She shook her head rapidly. ‘No, she doesn’t get changed at the Wharf. At the Bear, they have rooms there and she cleans. Or she did …’
‘She was a chambermaid?’ This was the first Mickey had heard of it.
‘On Sundays. It can be hard to get people to work on Sundays. She went after church, did her shift from two in the afternoon, came back about eight o’clock at night.’
‘And where is the Bear?’ he asked.
‘On the London Road, heading up towards Stonesby. It’s mostly used by the hunting set, those that don’t stay with Sir Joseph or Lord Rathbun.’
‘And Penny kept a change of clothes there?’
‘No, she changed into her uniform when she got there, then she changed back into her dress. The blue dress – that was one of her church dresses. She used to say it was smart and simple. She either wore that one or the grey one. The fabric was made over from a dress that was given to her – by Mrs Forsyth, I think. She took it apart and made it to fit herself. So upset she was, when it went missing; it meant she had to come home in her uniform and that’s not allowed. The landlord at the Bear is very strict.’
‘I see,’ Mickey said. ‘Do you remember when it went missing?’
‘Two or three weeks before … before—’ She looked about to break down and Mickey quickly intervened.
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘that’s very helpful. I’m going to ask you another question now, a rather personal one, but very important.’ He produced the letter from his pocket and said, ‘Have you seen this before, or do you recognize the handwriting? Do you know who it might be from? I’m told you and Penny were very close, that you were very special friends and she might have confided in you.’
The pale face flushed for a moment. She took the letter and examined it carefully, and Mickey had the distinct impression that this was not the first time she had seen it, this or one similar. He leaned closer and asked very quietly, ‘Did she have a young man? Someone she wanted to keep secret?’
Hilary hesitated and then nodded just slightly. ‘I don’t who he is,’ she whispered. ‘I got the impression that he was well set-up and that.’ She glanced towards the door, to where her mother and Walker stood talking in the hall, and continued, ‘I got the impression he might have been married. She was really secretive about him.’
‘And have you any idea where she might have become acquainted with her young man? Or any special place they might meet?’
She shook her head.
‘Not even a tiny idea?’ She wanted to tell; Mickey could see that. Wanted to unburden herself.
‘The Railway Hotel.’ This was more breath than words, as though she was fearful of being overheard. ‘Not here, over in Market Harborough. No one knew her over there. She knew it was wrong, but she did love him so much.’
Henry’s search through the boxes was bearing even more fruit, although he wasn’t exactly certain of the significance of what he’d found. A bundle of press clippings had been folded into an envelope and this envelope stacked in the middle of other stationery so that a quick glance would not reveal its presence. He opened it up and lay the contents out on the table. About a dozen clippings, carefully folded together and all on the same subject. Attacks on young women, going back three or four years. No one had died, but the girls involved had been grabbed and assaulted, and, in the later clippings, they reported that their assailant had put his hands about their neck and squeezed. Two girls had lost consciousness; one had hit her head badly as she had fallen and required stitches.
Henry checked the dates. Three years and eight months ago to the present, the latest incident from five months ago, the couple of months before Sarah Downham had been killed. The girl had been grabbed as she had left her place of work in East Harborough. She had been late out due to a stocktake, fortunately in the company of another young woman and a supervisor. She had just had time to scream before he clamped a gloved hand across her mouth, and the other young woman had come running, swiftly followed by the supervisor. Outnumbered, the man had taken to his heels. The girl had been badly shaken and her dress torn, the heel of one shoe wrenched off as he had tried to drag her into an alleyway. It could, Henry reflected, have been so much worse. Was this an opportunistic attack? Or had the man been watching the girl and just not realized that she was in company with others?
Why, Henry wondered, had he not been told about these incidents before? Had no one made the connection?
There was a map of the local area pinned on to the wall, and Henry took the clippings over to the map and studied the locations. All had taken place within something like a ten-mile radius, he reckoned, but the actual incidents were well spread out, and when he read the details closely, there was sufficient difference that it might be possible for these to be seen as individual, one-off incidents, not a series of events. He had made the connection because he had seen all the clippings in one place, and looking at the byline for each one, he realized that someone else had made the connection, too, even though he had not explicitly expressed it. Henry wondered why that might be. The journalist who had written these reports clearly had an eye for detail; he had recorded many fragments of information about the victim, often without giving away their name, about the location of the assault, about what they and the man had been wearing, but had not suggested that one man might be responsible.
And, of course, Henry realized, at least one other person had made the connection, too. Sarah Downham. What had her interest been? Had she known any of the victims? Had this interest, perchance, led her into danger? And who else had she told? He would bet whatever cash he had in his wallet that she had confided in Penny Soper.
A quick enquiry with the desk sergeant told him where he might find the journalist. A few minutes later, Henry was in the car and on his way, Cronin driving again.
‘Do you know this Percival White?’
Cronin nodded. ‘He is a writer of some kind – does articles for three or maybe four of the local newspapers.’
‘And what does he normally cover?’
‘Anything and everything. I suppose in the big newspapers journalists might specialize; I see the same person in the nationals write about crime, or politics, or cooking. My mum reads the cooking columns. And the gossip. Round here, though, the newspapers aren’t very big, so many come out weekly. The Eastern Echo is our local and comes out on a Friday night and has a special page listing all the upcoming social events for the next two weeks. Mr White writes about everything from the hunting to the village fetes in the summer. He covers the court cases sometimes and occasionally goes into Leicester and reports on the racing. Sometimes the editor sends him to places, I think, and sometimes he writes his own articles and tries to sell them.’
‘You know quite a bit about him.’
Cronin shrugged. ‘Not really. I run into him quite often at the magistrates’ court; sometimes there are long gaps between anything happening, so we got chatting one day. He wanted to know why I became a policeman, and I wanted to know why he wrote stuff.’
‘And his private life – is he married? How long has he lived here?’
‘Not married. He lives in a boarding house, could probably afford to live in a better place, but he said he likes the landlady and she does have a reputation for being a fine cook. Her name is Mrs Rogers,’ he added, ‘and I think he grew up round here. Went away to London for a bit, and then I think he spent some time in Manchester. He came home when his mother was really sick. After she died, she left him a bit of cash, so he decided to concentrate on his writing, live in the boarding house and work for the newspapers.’
Henry was amused. ‘You seem to have interviewed him very thoroughly in your conversation with him,’ he said.
‘I knew him slightly before,’ Cronin said. ‘My mother knew his mother and they both knew Mrs Rogers. You know how it is – this is a small place, and everyone knows everyone.’
‘I’m beginning to realize that.’
They pulled up outside a tall and impressive-looking terraced house on the edge of town, and Henry realized that he probably could have walked the distance in about a quarter of an hour. The house looked clean and scrubbed, in a street of clean, scrubbed houses, doorsteps gleaming and net curtains sparkling white. ‘Come in and introduce me,’ Henry said, noting the alacrity with which Cronin obliged. He was obviously enjoying himself, Henry thought. He wondered what the prospects for promotion were like in a place like this and decided they were probably slim.
A neat woman opened the door, dressed in a pale-blue print with a white lace collar and her grey hair curled into a high bun. She recognized Cronin immediately. ‘Why, Billy Cronin, what brings you here?’
Henry left the constable to make the introduction and to ask if Percival White might be available as the chief inspector had some questions to ask about some articles he’d written.
‘The chief inspector thinks they might shed some light on the Penny Soper murder,’ Cronin said, an edge of excitement in his voice.
Mrs Rogers looked impressed. ‘Well, there’s a thing. You go into the front parlour, gentlemen, and I will go and fetch Mr White.’
What was it about front parlours, Henry thought, that they always had that same air of formality and neglect? Even though this one was clean and polished, it still had a slightly forlorn air, as though it would like to be used more often, rather than be kept for visiting vicars and policemen. The furniture was comfortable, if a little overstuffed, the mantle clock ticked pleasantly, and there were books on the shelves in the alcoves that reminded him oddly of those he had found in Sarah Downham’s boxes, the ones that had belonged to her mother but had never been read. A gas fire had replaced the open hearth. Shivering suddenly, he wished someone would light the thing.
A few minutes later, Mrs Rogers was back, a dark-haired man in tow. He looked slightly perturbed but gave Constable Cronin a warm smile and extended a hand to Henry. ‘Percival White,’ he said. ‘Mrs Rogers said you wanted to ask about some articles I had written. I think I know the ones you are referring to.’
Henry noticed Mrs Rogers nodding approvingly, as though this was something that she was privy to and it was about time the police took notice. She bent to light the fire and then announced that she was going to make them all some coffee. Henry took the newspaper clippings from the envelope and handed them to Percival White. He glanced through them and then looked up at Henry. ‘You are, of course, missing the most recent.’
‘Sarah Downham was not available to collect clippings about her own death or that of her friend, Penelope Soper,’ Henry said.
The journalist looked at him in surprise. ‘Miss Downham collected these? What on earth for?’
‘Did you know Miss Downham?’
‘I knew who she was. I know her father to pass the time of day with, and her aunt, Mrs Forsyth, frequently turns up on committees that I’m reporting on. She believes in good works, does Mrs Forsyth.’ It was said dryly, as though Percival White was not keen on the lady.
‘And what about Penelope Soper? Did you know her?’
‘No, not at all. It’s a bad business, Chief Inspector, and, as you’ll see from my articles, one that has been continuing for quite some time. It was inevitable, I suppose, that it would end in murder.’
‘And yet you have not publicly made the connection or spoken to the police about this conclusion that all of these cases may be connected.’
Percival White laughed harshly. ‘My editor, or should I say my editors, for I have three, will not publish what they call dangerous speculation or anything that is not in the public interest. It was suggested that I might just frighten the horses, or the community, or whatever.’ He waved a dismissive hand, but Henry could see the tiredness in his eyes, could see that he was a man who could imagine the worst that life could serve up and then had the misfortune to be present at the full banquet. White, he guessed, was in his mid-thirties, but the lines on his face made him look older.
‘And the police?’
‘The attacks have taken place both here and in the neighbouring county. Three different constabularies have been involved, and six local police officers, all from different stations, have looked into the incidents. As far as I know, none of those six officers has spoken to the others about any of these incidents, and they are sufficiently diverse, geographically, for them to hold to the opinion that different men may be responsible. Particularly as the witness statements are not always consistent. Two of the girls speak of the man as being over six feet tall. Three of them say he was not tall but very broad. One that he had a local accent and another convinced that he was from London – the girl herself never having been anywhere near London but—’
Henry nodded. ‘I find witness statements are rarely reliable. People notice what most frightens them and that often in fragments. Tell me, did you ever consider that Brewer might be responsible for these other attacks?’
‘Considered it, did not rule it out completely, but it seemed unlikely. For one thing, Brewer was questioned over three of them and had a sound alibi for each. On one of those occasions, he was in the Wharf, the pub that’s right on the border with Northamptonshire, as you might have realized. The landlord gave him an alibi for that night, backed up by a dozen patrons. The other two incidents were on the other side of the county, and again he was alibied. On one occasion, I believe, he was doing some work for Sir Joseph Bright, under the supervision of the estate manager, and on the other occasion, the Greens made a statement that he was on their farm. That’s the farm close to where Sarah Downham was found.’
Henry nodded. ‘I have spoken to them,’ he said.
‘It was harvest-time, so everyone capable of walking and holding any kind of implement was on one farm or another. His sister was there as well, I believe. Elizabeth Brewer.’
‘You know Elizabeth Brewer?’
‘“Know” is too strong a word; I am acquainted with her. Doctor Clark uses her from time to time as a temporary nurse, and she nursed my mother in the last weeks of her life. I came back permanently a few days before my mother died and, yes, I did get to know Miss Brewer then. To be frank, though, she was too busy looking after my mother, and I was too busy trying to make sense of my mother’s affairs to have long conversations. She seemed like a pleasant lady and anybody you talk to will tell you the same. Miss Brewer is as different from her brother as chalk is to cheese.’
The coffee arrived, and while it was being poured, Henry shuffled once more through the press clippings. Then, cradling the cup and saucer between his hands, he said, ‘Mr White, I’m assuming you took notes and made observations that did not make it into the newspapers.’
Percival White nodded, his eyes suddenly less tired, his face a little less lined. ‘I did, indeed,’ he said, ‘and, believe me, I would be more than happy to share them with someone who actually listens to me. These two murders did not come out of nowhere; I’m convinced that they are linked to these previous attacks. I’m also convinced that the killer is very familiar with this whole area, that he knows the footpaths and the shortcuts and the communities, and who is likely to be alone and when and what risks he can take. I am certain, Chief Inspector, that those two girls died because no one took my earlier claims seriously. They were busy looking for some gypsy or traveller or outsider who happened to be passing through, someone who saw a girl, attacked her and then went on his way. No one looked seriously at their own communities or those of their neighbours or looked to see if there were any connections between the young women or any similarities.’
‘No one except you?’
Percival White laughed. ‘I suppose I became a little obsessed with the stories,’ he admitted. ‘And I suppose I was in a prime position to notice the similarities. I can, if I’m honest, understand why they went unnoticed, but what I find so hard is that when I drew them to the attention of my editors, to the authorities, even to Sir Joseph Bright who, as a local magistrate, should really be more concerned, I found myself dismissed. I almost found myself out of a job. No one wanted to know, Inspector. Random attacks on young women are one thing. Unfortunate, reprehensible, but isolated. The idea that these incidents might be down to one man, who was becoming more and more violent as time went on, frankly I think that frightens people to a far greater extent. Frightens them into denial. And, of course, the longer it goes on, the more people are caught up, either as victims or investigators, and the more difficult it is for anyone to admit they might have been wrong in the first place – that had a connection been made, something could have been done at an earlier stage.’
Henry nodded. ‘Did you speak to Inspector Walker about any of this?’
For the first time, White seemed to hesitate. ‘I did,’ he said, ‘but the inspector believed he had got his man. He was interested only in seeing Brewer hang for the death of Sarah Downham and made it plain he did not want the distraction of some random, barely employed scribbler trying to steal his thunder.’ He paused as though suddenly aware of how bitter he sounded, and as though reminding himself that he was speaking to another policeman. He went on, ‘You know, I suppose, that Walker had a history with Brewer?’
‘I know that he arrested him previously. You are referring to another kind of history?’
‘Yes. An argument about a woman. A woman that was engaged to Inspector Walker. It seems she was a woman of some independent means, and Brewer somehow inveigled his way into her affections. Now Walker maintains that Brewer stole from her, but Brewer maintained that the woman gave him money of her own accord. To cut a long story short, it led to a major row between the three of them; the engagement was broken off, the woman left the area, and Brewer never stopped aggravating the inspector about his not being able to hold on to his fiancée.’
‘The name of this woman? You know where she is now?’
White looked confused. ‘Why the devil does that matter? It’s ancient history. True, it might well have coloured Walker’s attitude towards Brady Brewer, but the circumstantial evidence was so strong that anybody would have found him guilty, personal grudge or no.’
‘Perhaps so. But I would still like to trace this woman.’
‘Her name was Holly Machin, and I believe she is now in Liverpool. She had family there. Beyond that, I can tell you very little. She was widowed; the husband was a business associate of Mr Downham’s, I believe, so they may be able to tell you more. All of this happened about five years ago. Machin was a solicitor, mostly engaged with conveyancing and property law. When he died, he left his wife the house and an annuity, and some ready cash in the bank. I don’t know how much of it she had left by the time Brewer finished with her – or the nature of their relationship. Whatever it was, she and Walker broke off their engagement.’
Henry glanced at his watch. Mickey and Walker would soon be back at the police station, and he wanted to see what the morning had added to their knowledge. ‘Mr White, if you would be so good as to gather all of your notes together, then perhaps my sergeant and I can call back this evening. At perhaps eight o’clock – that is, if Mrs Rogers could be prevailed upon to give us use of her front parlour again.’
‘I’m sure Mrs Rogers would be delighted,’ Percival White told him. ‘One of the young women who was attacked, Belinda Masefield, was a great-niece of Mrs Rogers. As you can imagine, she has a vested interest in this being solved.’