quiet night. Two coppers from C Division, its headquarters at Gerald Road just around the corner. At the wheel of his police van, Sergeant Donald Baker squealed to a halt outside the pub. His partner, Constable Philip Beddick, dashed in. The injured woman was covered in dish towels, and the Whitehouses and their customers crowded around. An ambulance was on its way, from St. George’s Hospital at nearby Hyde Park Corner, and the woman had enough presence of mind to tell the publican her name. She was Veronica Bingham, the Countess of Lucan, and she lived 30 yards away, at Number 46 Lower Belgrave St.
No need for the scream of tires or a blazing siren. It was quicker for the police to get there on foot. 46 was on the same side of the street as the pub, the last house before the addresses change to Eaton Square that runs along a T junction. The house was like all the others on the street, with four steps up to the front door and railings to each side. To the right, more steps led down to a half basement. The whole place was in darkness and the front door was locked. Baker tried the basement door—that was locked too.
Murder Scene
46 Lower Belgrave St.
Two burly coppers could probably have shoulder-barged the front door, but they used a credit card and slipped inside. Ahead stretched the hallway, leading to the stairs. Baker flicked the light switch. Nothing. He sent Beddick back to the van for a flashlight.
Alone in the house, Baker was careful. He had his hardwood nightstick in hand, but he had no idea what he might be facing. One by one, he checked the doors off the hall. All the rooms were empty and in darkness. The only light came from a small cloakroom fronted with a drape. He slid the drape back and saw blood on a washbasin; there was more on a lampshade in the hall, and as his eyes became acclimatized, he saw sprays and splashes over the walls and ceiling.
Baker doubled back and opened the door to the basement. Again he tried the light switch and again it didn’t work. Slowly, carefully, he edged his way down the stairs, and his feet crunched on broken crockery on the basement floor. Here, thanks to the street light coming in through the venetian blinds, he saw pools of blood and bloody footprints leading to the back door. The door was open and Baker went out into the night, secretly glad of the fresh air. There was a small garden and a high wall all the way around with a wooden trellis above that. No one could have left that way.
The sergeant retraced his steps and took the stairs to the upper floors. A bedside light was burning in the main bedroom and a bloody towel lay across the pillows. On the next floor, as he clicked open another door, he found a little boy, 7-year-old Lord George Bingham, fast asleep. In the next room, his little sister, 3-year-old Lady Camilla, was sleeping too. Across the room, standing by her own bed, was 10-year-old Lady Frances. She asked Baker if he had seen her mummy and her nanny.
The Lucan House at 46 Lower Belgrave St.
When Beddick finally arrived with the flashlight, Baker took it and left the constable with the kids. The sergeant went back to his search, now more properly equipped. In the hall, he saw a lead pipe, about 9 inches long, bent and wrapped in bloody surgical tape. A light bulb lay on a chair in the basement. It had clearly been removed from its socket, and Baker replaced it. The full glare of the basement light told an appalling story. The room was a kitchen, but it was also a murder scene and a charnel house. There was blood everywhere and smashed tea cups, some bits still lying on a tray. In one corner was a canvas US mailbag soaked with dark blood. Baker eased open the top and felt inside. A female arm flopped out, to be remembered, photographed and documented by the crime scene officers later. He didn’t know it yet, but Sergeant Baker could now answer the question little Lady Frances had put to him. He had found the nanny: Sandra Rivett.
Plan of the
No need for the scream of tires or a blazing siren. It was quicker for the police to get there on foot. 46 was on the same side of the street as the pub, the last house before the addresses change to Eaton Square that runs along a T junction. The house was like all the others on the street, with four steps up to the front door and railings to each side. To the right, more steps led down to a half basement. The whole place was in darkness and the front door was locked. Baker tried the basement door—that was locked too.
Murder Scene
46 Lower Belgrave St.
Two burly coppers could probably have shoulder-barged the front door, but they used a credit card and slipped inside. Ahead stretched the hallway, leading to the stairs. Baker flicked the light switch. Nothing. He sent Beddick back to the van for a flashlight.
Alone in the house, Baker was careful. He had his hardwood nightstick in hand, but he had no idea what he might be facing. One by one, he checked the doors off the hall. All the rooms were empty and in darkness. The only light came from a small cloakroom fronted with a drape. He slid the drape back and saw blood on a washbasin; there was more on a lampshade in the hall, and as his eyes became acclimatized, he saw sprays and splashes over the walls and ceiling.
Baker doubled back and opened the door to the basement. Again he tried the light switch and again it didn’t work. Slowly, carefully, he edged his way down the stairs, and his feet crunched on broken crockery on the basement floor. Here, thanks to the street light coming in through the venetian blinds, he saw pools of blood and bloody footprints leading to the back door. The door was open and Baker went out into the night, secretly glad of the fresh air. There was a small garden and a high wall all the way around with a wooden trellis above that. No one could have left that way.
The sergeant retraced his steps and took the stairs to the upper floors. A bedside light was burning in the main bedroom and a bloody towel lay across the pillows. On the next floor, as he clicked open another door, he found a little boy, 7-year-old Lord George Bingham, fast asleep. In the next room, his little sister, 3-year-old Lady Camilla, was sleeping too. Across the room, standing by her own bed, was 10-year-old Lady Frances. She asked Baker if he had seen her mummy and her nanny.
The Lucan House at 46 Lower Belgrave St.
When Beddick finally arrived with the flashlight, Baker took it and left the constable with the kids. The sergeant went back to his search, now more properly equipped. In the hall, he saw a lead pipe, about 9 inches long, bent and wrapped in bloody surgical tape. A light bulb lay on a chair in the basement. It had clearly been removed from its socket, and Baker replaced it. The full glare of the basement light told an appalling story. The room was a kitchen, but it was also a murder scene and a charnel house. There was blood everywhere and smashed tea cups, some bits still lying on a tray. In one corner was a canvas US mailbag soaked with dark blood. Baker eased open the top and felt inside. A female arm flopped out, to be remembered, photographed and documented by the crime scene officers later. He didn’t know it yet, but Sergeant Baker could now answer the question little Lady Frances had put to him. He had found the nanny: Sandra Rivett.
Plan of the
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