Free The Testimony of the Hanged Man (Lizzie Martin 5) by Granger Ann

until she is seven years old. It is very hard for women like poor Jane.’
    ‘Be careful whom you marry!’ I said with a smile in an attempt to lighten the gloomy conversation.
    ‘I was fortunate to meet you again, Ben, after so many years. Jane Stephens, if that is her maiden name, met Mr Hubert Canning. No doubt he appeared an excellent prospect and the elderly great-aunt would have been anxious to see Jane comfortably established. I do wonder where she is now, and the little girl. It’s terrible to think what a state they may be in.’ Lizzie glanced at the clock. It was getting very late.
    I, too, hauled myself wearily from my comfortable chair. ‘I wish I could even hazard a guess. The best I can say is that, so far, her body has not been hauled from the Thames. I have telegraphed a request to my opposite number in Southampton tonight, asking him to send someone to call on Jane’s elderly relative. It may help to find out the background to her marriage. I will do my utmost to find them, Lizzie,’ I added.
    My wife smiled ‘Yes, Ben, I know you will. If anyone can find them, you will do it.’
    ‘What I cannot do is investigate Mills’s murder at Putney.’ I picked up the poker and rattled it in the grate.
    ‘Was Dunn very angry about that?’
    ‘He wasn’t so bad, quite sympathetic. But he was firm I should leave the matter alone. So nothing can be done.’
    ‘Mm,’ was all the reply. My wife had a thoughtful look on her face that I recognised only too well.
    ‘No!’ I said firmly.
    ‘No, what?’
    ‘This is not something for you to take an interest in!’
    ‘It seems those like the governor or the home secretary, who could do something, will not. If they won’t, you can’t. So, if I don’t, who will?’ Lizzie asked serenely.
    This was true. It still didn’t make it a feasible proposition – or a desirable one. I did my best to explain this, all the time sensing my arguments were bouncing off a brick wall. ‘What can you possibly hope to find out?’ I pleaded at last. ‘The whole thing happened, if it did, in the middle of Putney Heath – and sixteen years ago. I have no address. I wonder now if Mills himself could have found the house again. He says it wasn’t far from the Portsmouth road but that’s a vague location, for the main route down to the south runs right across the heath. Above the roof was a weathervane fashioned like a running fox with his brush held straight out behind him. That could have blown down in a gale since then. Or there might be two or three houses with such a weathervane.
    ‘Perhaps if I could find some additional evidence to support Mills’s statement, I might get those in authority to take an interest. But the likelihood of finding any such evidence is – well – it’s impossible now.’
    She had listened patiently to my argument and, as always, had an answer. ‘I could find Wally Slater and get him to drive me out to Putney in his cab. With Wally, when I get there, I will have freedom of movement. The house, Mills told you, stands apart from others.’
    ‘It was sixteen years ago,’ I reminded her. ‘There will almost certainly have been changes. It is not only hereabouts that London has seen such a mania for building. Putney will have seen many more houses built in the last twenty years. Who knows if that particular house is still the lonely dwelling it was when Mills came on it. Besides . . .’ I reached for the last brick in my argument. ‘It’s too far for you to go, anyway. Setting aside the cost, that old nag of Slater’s will never make it there and back without dropping in the shafts.’
    ‘He doesn’t have Nelson any more. He has a new, younger horse. It’s called Victor.’
    I allowed myself to be distracted. ‘Victor?’
    ‘It would have been called Victory, to keep the memory of Nelson going, you understand. But Victor is easier to say.’
    ‘You still can’t drive all over the heath hoping to find a house that might not