An Air That Kills by Andrew Taylor Page A

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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜What happened next?’ Thornhill asked.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜She smothered her own children?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Sure you won’t join me?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜This must have made quite a stir at the time. Do you know of an account of the case I could look up?’
    â€˜Any amount of them.’ Harcutt picked up the bottle and studied the label. ‘You know the Notable British