Free A Dreadful Murder by Minette Walters

younger children, a couple of wooden chairs and a folded blanket which was probably what Blaine rolled himself up in at night. ‘It looks to me as if your stepmother needs every penny you can earn.’
    ‘We get by.’
    ‘Only through the kindness of ladies like Mrs Luard.’ Taylor turned back to the woman. ‘You must be worried her charities won’t help you now that she’s dead.’
    Mrs Blaine looked away, unable to meet his eye. ‘Her husband should hang for what he did.’
    ‘Except it wasn’t the Major-General who murdered her, Mrs Blaine. She was attacked by two men, and one of them had a revolver. We think the weapon was stolen from a house in this area.’
    There was no response.
    ‘The man with the revolver used the butt to club Mrs Luard down. She lay unconscious for several minutes before he and his friend decided to shoot her.’ He turned to Michael Blaine. ‘It was a stupid and vicious crime,’ he said. ‘The sort that low-grade vermin commit.’
    The young man took a step forward, balling his fists. ‘Save your breath. What happened over there was nothing to do with me.’
    Taylor ignored him. ‘The only reason Mrs Luard is dead is because she knew her killers. We’re looking for local men – aged between seventeen and twenty – with a history of thieving and poaching. There’s no trust between them. They took it in turns to fire into her head so that if one of them hangs they both will.’
    He watched the colour drain from Mrs Blaine’s face and saw the speed with which her stepson gripped her arm in an iron fist in case she tried to speak. ‘I guess it’s true what everyone’s saying,’ Michael hissed. ‘You’ll make a poor man swing rather than the bastard she married. You’ve already been after Will Farrell. Now you think you can come after me.’
    Taylor stared him down. ‘The Major-General can prove he was halfway to Godden Green when his wife was shot. Can you do the same?’
    ‘I don’t have to. It wasn’t me that killed her.’
    ‘Then you’d better hope Will Farrell stays quiet. I gave him an easy ride yesterday.’
    ‘You’ve got nothing on either of us.’
    Taylor glanced around the room. ‘So it won’t matter to you if we search this place?’
    ‘Like hell you will,’ Blaine snarled. ‘Where’s your warrant? We’ve got the same rights as the rich.’
    ‘What are you afraid we’re going to find, Michael?’
    ‘Nothing. I’m afraid of what you’ll plant on me. You think you can treat us like dirt just because we’re poor. Mrs Luard was the same. She made us beg for every penny she handed out.’
    ‘You’ve never begged in your life,’ Taylor said coldly. ‘You send your stepmother out to do it for you. The world is full of worthless layabouts who’d rather be kept by women than lift a finger for themselves.’
    The youth’s eyes narrowed angrily. ‘You don’t know nothing.’
    Taylor turned towards the door. ‘I know this. Mrs Luard would still be alive if she’d left you to starve in the workhouse.’

Chapter Twelve
Saturday, 5 September 1908 –
Sevenoaks, late evening
    Henry Warde threaded his way through the saloon bar of the Farmer’s Inn to where Taylor and Philpott were sitting. The Superintendent slid a pint of ale across the table. ‘Drink up,’ he said. ‘We’re two ahead of you.’
    Kent’s Chief Constable put his hat on the table and sat down. ‘How did it go?’
    ‘So-so. We’re frozen to death but we visited every family on Mrs Anderson’s list. Most of them allowed us to search their houses. The further we drove from Ightham the more willing they were to let us look.’
    ‘Did you find anything?’
    Taylor shook his head.
    ‘So it was a waste of time?’
    ‘Not exactly.’ Taylor took out his notebook. ‘It’s all in here. The most likely culprits are Michael Blaine and Will Farrell. We’ll need warrants to search their houses but I doubt we’ll find anything.’
    Warde took a mouthful of beer and ran his eye