10

9.00 A.M. THURSDAY 29th DECEMBER

CONSTABLE IRWIN LEFT THE Stuart cottage with his package of evidence, and plunged into the milling, murmuring crowd. It was already of nuisance proportions, and was becoming all the more so by the minute as it continued to swell. Speculation was rife, and in some quarters not principally over who had perpetrated this monstrous act, but rather why the victim should have found herself in such mortal danger. That she was violated had already been decided among the crowd; she was a pretty young woman, after all, and robbery could hardly have been a motive, as word was that nothing had been stolen.

Sergeant Telford detailed three constables to keep the spectators well back, with orders to arrest transgressors. Another policeman, Constable Mansell, was on guard at the cottage front door, where through the throng a man lugging unwieldy equipment had just arrived. He introduced himself with a hand extended from between the legs of a tripod.

‘Good morning, Constable. Thomas Chuck — London Portrait Gallery. I’m here on the order of Detective Walker. On account of the coroner —’

‘Being away. Yes, yes, Mr Chuck, you are expected. The deceased is through there.’

The sentry made room. Chuck gathered his apparatus and hefted it across the threshold.

REVEREND TAYLOR HAD RISEN early and slipped away from a back room at Pitman’s with a nod of thanks to the proprietor for his discretion. He passed unseen by George Stuart, seated at the bar and throwing down a double whisky. Stuart had just come from Detective Walker, who’d checked with the mine and so cleared him of suspicion — a development that brought him some guilty comfort.

‘That’s on the house,’ John Pitman said. ‘Another?’

Stuart didn’t reply. Pitman replenished the glass.

‘What’s on your mind?’ he said, as Mrs Pitman arrived with a basket of wet clothes. She put it down and pulled her husband away.

‘He shouldn’t be here, drinking. It’ll do him no good,’ she said in coarse whisper.

But Pitman wasn’t quite done. He put a hand on Stuart’s shoulder. ‘She was a beautiful young woman, your Maggie —’

The front door creaked. Pitman looked up, to see a man there.

‘She should never have married you, Stuart.’

Stuart spun around; Joe Latham had announced himself in his coarse cockney. He stood there in the doorway as if to gauge the odds before committing further to the room. But Stuart was already on his feet and striding towards the short man, jaw set and fists tight. Latham didn’t flinch. Stuart pulled up. Pitman appealed to reason and self-restraint.

‘Now listen, fighting won’t do no good.’

‘Go on, Stuart,’ Latham taunted, ‘but I know you’re not man enough.’

Stuart was blowing hard, unsure of whether to attack or leave. Latham scoffed at the indecision.

‘I always said you were wrong for my girl. I never meant for you to have her.’

At this, Stuart found voice, and his fists. He leapt at Latham, ‘You cut her throat, you bastard!’

They pushed and twisted in each other’s grip. Latham broke free and landed a blow on Stuart’s cheek. Pitman was onto them to spare furniture and glassware. He tried to pull Latham away, but it was Mrs Pitman who proved effective. She bustled over and inserted herself into the fracas.

‘For the love of God!’ she cried, glaring at one and then the other. ‘Never have I seen the like of it. Your own wife, your own step-daughter, lying up there like that, all exposed, violated, drenched in her own blood —’

Pitman pulled her away. The combatants straightened themselves. George Stuart collected his hat and departed.