The Case That Foiled Fabian E-Book

Simon Read

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 350

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

On Wednesday 14 February 1945, the body of Charles Walton was discovered on the lower slopes of Meon Hill near the sleepy Warwickshire village of Lower Quinton, his torso pinned to the ground by a pitchfork. Myths and rumours soon swirled about the crime. Accounts claim Walton, a retired labourer and a lifelong resident of Lower Quinton, was believed by many to be a clairvoyant who could talk to birds and exercise control over animals. It has even been reported that many villagers attributed Walton's death to ritual witchcraft. But what is fact and what is fiction? The most famous police officer in Britain, Chief Inspector Robert Fabian, was promptly dispatched by Scotland Yard to solve this increasingly peculiar and foreboding mystery. 'Fabian of the Yard' was not a man prone to superstition and had dealt with some of the most notorious killers of his time – but there was something strange about the Walton murder. Did the clues point to ritual witchcraft as the modus operandi, or was the black magic angle merely a ruse? With the villagers unable – or unwilling – to shed light on the matter, Fabian faced, for the only time in his glittering career, the daunting prospect of failure. The Case That Foiled Fabian lays out for the first time what actually happened and distills the truth from the many myths about this case that are today mistaken for facts.

Leseprobe

To Cameron.

Love, Dad.

It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Sherlock Holmes in The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet.

CONTENTS

Title

Dedication

Acknowledgements

1. Origins of a Mystery

2. A Detective’s Education

3. Fabian Arrives

4. Fabian of the Yard

5. The Suspect

6. An Unyielding Puzzle

7. Suspicions Abound

8. Beyond the Case Files

9. The Spectre of Witchcraft

10. No End in Sight

11. The Mystery’s Allure

12. Fabian’s Sunset

Postscript

Bibliography

Notes

Copyright

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Although I live in California, I’m always looking for reasons to get back to Britain. Writing this book provided such an opportunity. Working on this project was a pure joy. The subject matter was intriguing, and it allowed me to spend some time in the Cotswolds. I never tire of the English countryside, so any chance to enjoy it is always welcome. No one ever writes a book alone – and this title is no exception. An author always relies on a support network of friends and family. In this case, I would like to start by thanking the good people at The History Press – especially Mark Beynon, my editor. This is the second book we’ve done together. We both share an enthusiasm for beer, scotch, classic British rock and James Bond. His excellent tastes aside, he’s a great colleague and one I’m proud to call a friend. I owe my agents – Roger Williams in the States and Rachel Calder in the UK – a debt of gratitude for their tireless work on my behalf.

On the research front, I want to thank the staff at the National Archives in Kew. I’ve relied on them a good number of times, and they’ve never let me down. A very special thanks goes to Dick Kirby, crime author and retired Scotland Yard detective who spent eight years on the famed Flying Squad, for his assistance and pointing me in the right direction when I needed help. This book briefly examines Charles Walton’s family history. I want to thank Richard Patterson – who has spent many years studying the Walton case – for providing me the findings of his genealogical research.

When, at the age of 13, I told my parents I wanted to be an author, they didn’t dismiss the idea or try to talk me out of it – they encouraged me to pursue my ambition. I am incredibly grateful for their love, support, and friendship. Katie, my wife, read a first draft of this book and made great suggestions to help better the narrative flow. She’s an amazing writer, and I hope to read one of her books someday. To my sons, Spencer and Cameron: I love you guys.

1

ORIGINSOFA MYSTERY

Charles Walton woke, as he always did, before sunrise and gingerly swung his legs out of bed. He placed his feet on the floor and slowly pushed himself off the mattress. Whether he went to work today or not was dependent on how badly his body ached. The 74-year-old suffered from rheumatism and sciatica. Standing, he grabbed his short walking stick and moved to the bedroom window. Only recently arthritis had started to bend the old man’s body, forcing him to use the stick when he walked.

He lived in number 15, Lower Quinton, a thatched-roof cottage opposite the village church. Outside, the steeple stood in silhouette against the pre-dawn sky. Walton shared the cottage with his 33-year-old niece, Edith Walton. He and his wife had adopted her when she was just 3, following the death of her mother. When Walton’s wife died in 1927, Edith became Walton’s housekeeper. For her services, Walton paid his niece £1 a week. She didn’t mind taking care of her uncle, for ‘he was an extremely good-tempered man’. Not prone to anger, he never gossiped about others in the village and got along well with those he met in passing – but, the truth was, he preferred to keep to himself. ‘He was friendly with everyone,’ Edith would later recall, ‘but no one ever visited him at the house. He didn’t go out in the evenings and very seldom went into the public house. He was always happy and contented with his life.’ Indeed, Walton’s was a simple existence. He worked as a farm labourer and, for the past year, had worked trimming hedges for Alfred John Potter, owner of The Firs Farm in Lower Quinton. The job, along with his old-age pension of 10s a week, allowed him to pay rent on the cottage and purchase ‘coal and meat’.

Rare was the occasion Walton would work a full week. During the winter, he worked the odd day here and there, as the cold weather wreaked havoc with his arthritic bones. He was a man of ritual. On the days he did decide to work, he would leave the house at 8.30 a.m. and take with him only a piece of cake, which he ate for a midday snack. He never carried his hedging tools with him. Instead, he would leave them in whatever field he was working in at the time and simply resume where he left off in the morning. At 4 p.m., he would return home for dinner. The morning of Wednesday 14 February 1945 was like any other. Edith was in the kitchen when her uncle came downstairs, ready to start his day’s labour. He wore a tweed jacket, a matching waistcoat and heather-mixture cardigan. To further protect him against the elements, he wrapped his wiry frame in a flannel body belt and two shirts – one made of flannel, the other short-sleeved and made of cotton. A pair of black boots and knitted socks kept his feet warm. It was the same outfit he wore whenever he went out hedging. Attached to a chain fastened to his waistcoat was a white metal pocket watch he carried with him at all times.

Walton never carried a wallet or personal papers. According to Edith, ‘He sometimes carried a purse with a few shillings in it, but on the morning of 14th February 1945, he left it at home.’ Edith, too, was preparing for work that morning. She had found employment as a typesetter at the Royal Society of Arts, which had vacated bomb-ravaged London for the safety of Lower Quinton. Charles took a seat at the small kitchen table as Edith prepared for him two pieces of toast and a cup of coffee – the same thing he ate every morning for breakfast. As Charles finished his meal, Edith wrapped a piece of cake for him in a blue sugar bag. The morning ritual complete, Charles left the cottage for the fields beneath Meon Hill. For the past several days, he had been trimming hedges in a field called Hillground.

The fact Walton met his end in the shadow of Meon Hill lends this mystery an air of the supernatural. The hill, home to foxes, rabbits, and badgers, rises 637 feet above the surrounding countryside. Despite the cultivation of Meon Hill by farmers over the centuries, the remnants of a fort dating back to the Iron Age are still visible as earthworks on top of the hill. Supposedly the inspiration for Weathertop in Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, Meon Hill is the furthest of the Cotswold mounds and has long been the setting of strange and ghostly stories. Local legend suggests it was once the earthly domain of the Devil. In the eighth century, so one story goes, the Devil looked down from Meon Hill across the fields to the rising spire of the recently constructed Evesham Abbey. So enraged was the Devil by the Holy spectacle he kicked a massive boulder down the hill in an attempt to smash the edifice. His effort was thwarted, however, by local villagers who diverted the course of the boulder through the power of prayer. The rock, missing the Abbey completely, instead came to rest on Cleeve Hill, near Cheltenham, where villagers shaped it into a giant cross to keep the Devil away. A variation of the same story claims the Devil clawed a large clump of earth from a field and threw it at the Abbey. Again, the power of prayer did him in when the Bishop of Worcester beseeched God to send the massive projectile astray. The earth fell from the sky mid-flight and thus formed Meon Hill upon its landing. Another legend holds that the phantom hounds of an ancient Celtic king roam the hill’s slopes at night. Supposedly, the ‘king was the lord of departed spirits who would hunt to gather souls, riding a pale horse and accompanied by a pack of white hounds with red ears’.

Having finished breakfast, Walton bid his niece farewell for the day and left the cottage. He moved with the aid of two walking sticks – one he purchased, the other he had made from a rough branch cut from a hedge. From his home, he hobbled across the road and made his way through the churchyard opposite. The morning was grey and damp, the tombstones in the churchyard glistening with moisture in the cold early light. Edith watched him from the cottage doorway before she finished readying herself for the day. Returning from work at 6 p.m., there was no response when she walked through the door. She called her uncle’s name and searched the cottage, and was surprised to discover the house empty. It was not like Walton to be out this late. She knew there was no point checking at the College Arms pub around the corner, for he wouldn’t be there.

Bundling herself in a coat, she went back out and knocked on the door of Harry Beasley, who lived in the cottage directly next door. Beasley had known Walton all his life and had lived next door to him for twenty-three years. He had last seen Walton at 5 p.m. the previous day. Walton had been working in his garden and called over to Beasley for help putting a piece of wood on a sawhorse. The old man, Beasley later recalled, had been ‘pleasant and friendly, just as usual’. When Beasley answered Edith’s knock, he could tell by the expression on her face something was wrong.

‘Uncle hasn’t come home yet,’ she said. ‘Would you mind coming to see if we could find him?’

Beasley knew it was odd for Walton to be out after dark. For the past year, Walton had been ‘bent nearly double with rheumatism’ and had trouble getting around without his walking sticks. Beasley immediately agreed to help Edith with her search. He grabbed a coat and a torch and led Edith across the road. They passed through the churchyard, as Walton had done that morning, and entered the fields belonging to Alfred Potter. They wandered about aimlessly, calling out Walton’s name, searching ditches and scanning fields, all to no avail. Each passing minute only served to stoke Edith’s growing concern. She knew something had happened to her uncle. When it became apparent their search was going nowhere, they walked to Firs Farm to ask Potter for help. It was roughly 6.15 p.m. when Potter got up from the dinner table to answer the knock on his door.

‘What hedge was my uncle working on?’ Edith asked, foregoing any customary pleasantries. ‘He has not returned home. There must be something wrong.’

‘My God,’ Potter replied, ‘there must be.’

He led Edith and Beasley across the farmyard and back into the fields.

‘I have to do the milking on Wednesday,’ Potter explained, as they made their way in the dark. ‘I came to the field to cut some hay at twelve o’clock and saw your uncle was at his work.’

Potter followed the path he assumed Walton would take on his way to and from work. Beasley walked alongside Potter, the light from their torches cutting a swathe through the misty black. Edith followed a few yards behind. The night swirled about them as a cold breeze blew off the slopes of Meon Hill, stirring the hedgerows and whispering through dead branches. They passed through a gate and into the field Potter had last seen Walton working that afternoon.

‘This is the hedge he was on,’ Potter said.

They followed the length of hedge Walton had been trimming. In a corner where the hedge intersected another, about 10 yards from where Potter had last seen Walton alive, they made the horrible discovery. Walton lay on the ground, his face glistening with blood. The two men stopped in their tracks. Immediately, Edith – still trailing behind them – knew something terrible had happened.

‘I hadn’t better let her see it,’ Beasley said, his voice thick in his throat.

He turned to stop Edith from coming any closer – but it was too late, she was already screaming. Just at that moment, local farm labourer Harry Peachey passed on the other side of the hedgerow, walking in the direction of neighbouring Upper Quinton. Peachey worked for a local farmer and had gone up the hill to inspect a field of beans he had planted several months prior. On his way up, he had noticed nothing unusual. Now, on his way back down, it was obvious some sort of drama was unfolding in Potter’s field.

‘Peachey,’ Potter shouted. ‘Go down to Mr Valender’s and phone the police to come up here at once!’

Peachey, hearing Edith’s screams but unsure as to what, exactly, was happening, did as instructed. Potter watched him disappear into the darkness before turning his attention once more to the horror at his feet. A hayfork had been thrust through the old man’s face; the handle had been pressed backwards and wedged under the hedge. The blade of Walton’s trouncing hook was buried deep in his neck. Behind Potter, Beasley gently coaxed Edith away from the scene, leading her back through the fields and towards the village. Near the churchyard they encountered Potter’s wife, Lilian.

Once Potter had gone off in search of Walton, Lilian had set about locking up the fowls for the evening. From the back of the farmhouse, she could see her husband – along with Harry Beasley and Edith – make their way through the orchard alongside the churchyard in the direction of the fields. As Lilian went about her evening chores, a neighbour, Miss Savory, stopped by and asked if she needed help. Glad for the company and the assistance, Lilian accepted. As the two women caged the hens for the night, Lilian mentioned ‘the hedge cutter hadn’t come home’. The news intrigued Miss Savory, who suggested the two of them go and investigate. The hens caged for the night, the two women left the farmyard in search of Potter and the others. They hadn’t got far when they heard what sounded like someone shouting in surprise.

‘That sounds like Alf’s voice,’ Lilian said.

It was not long thereafter they met on their way up Beasley, who accompanied the sobbing Edith.

‘He’s dead,’ Beasley said, matter-of-factly.

‘Where’s Alf?’ asked Lilian.

‘He’s got to stay there until I get back,’ Beasley said, motioning over his shoulder.

The four of them walked back towards the village, Edith’s wrenching sobs carrying across the darkened fields.

Allan Raymond Valender owned a farm and bakery in Upper Quinton. Just that morning, shortly before noon, Edith had come to visit him in the bakehouse to enquire about a wireless radio he was selling. The two discussed the price, and she agreed to buy it for £7. Now, it was 6.45 p.m. He had just settled into an armchair in his sitting room when a loud rapping at the window made him jump. He put down his paper and went to the front door to investigate, surprised to find Peachey standing out front and struggling to catch his breath.

‘I want you to phone the police immediately,’ Peachey rasped. ‘Mr Potter asked me to come down to you.’

‘Why,’ said Valender, ‘what’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Peachey, pausing, ‘but I think there’s something wrong with a girl. I think it’s Edie Walton. It’s just over in Mr Potter’s field.’

Knowing Potter was not a man easily startled, Valender went back inside and telephoned the Warwickshire County Constabulary, located in the nearby village of Long Marston. Michael Lomasney, Police Constable 173, took the call. The time was 6.50 p.m.

‘This is Ray Valender, Jim,’ said the urgent voice on the end of the line. ‘I’ve been told by Harry Peachey that there is a girl at the foot of Meon Hill and that there is something seriously wrong with her. I’ve been asked by Alf Potter to send for the police.’

‘All right, Ray,’ said Lomasney. ‘I’ll come at once.’

‘You had better come to me at my place,’ said Valender, ‘and I’ll come along with you.’

Lomasney donned his hat and grabbed the keys to the police car. He arrived at Valender’s house at five minutes past the hour and saw Valender and Peachey waiting for him. The three men walked into the fields neighbouring Valender’s house. They crossed two pastures and stopped.

‘Where are you, Alf?’ Valender shouted.

‘Here I am,’ called Potter, whose field adjoined Valender’s land.

Lomasney moved in the direction of the voice and climbed a boundary fence into Potter’s field. Potter stood about 25 feet from the corner of the field, near a Royal Air Force cable pole.

‘Where is she, Alf?’ asked Lomasney, concerned for the girl.

‘Look over there in the corner,’ Potter replied, pointing his finger in the direction where two hedges intersected.

Lomasney walked to the corner of the field and saw ‘a man lying on his back with his head towards the hedge’. The last pale vestiges of the winter sun were long gone. In the darkness, the constable initially thought the corpse was that of a serviceman.

‘It’s an airman,’ he said to no one in particular.

Potter mumbled something under his breath in response, but Lomasney was too focussed on the atrocity in front of him to hear what the farmer said. He pulled his lamp from his belt, threw some light on the dead man’s face, and saw the victim was a civilian.

‘Who is it, Alf?’

‘It’s old Charlie Walton,’ Potter replied. ‘He had been working for me at trimming the hedge.’

After having ‘a good look at the body’, Lomasney initially thought the death to be a case of suicide, though he did not indicate why in his eventual statement to Scotland Yard detectives. He knelt beside the body and went through the victim’s pockets in search of a note. He found none. In the bottom right-hand pocket of the waistcoat, he found a piece of silver watch chain – but no watch. In the left-hand pocket of his jacket was an empty blue sugar bag with some crumbs at the bottom. He searched the man’s other pockets and found nothing of note. At no time, while he rifled through the dead man’s clothing, did Lomasney get blood on his hands. Shining his torch on Walton’s neck, he saw ‘the blade of a hedging fork and the tine of a two-tine fork were inserted into the man’s neck and throat’. Gently pulling at the extreme end of the fork’s handle, he found the implement was wedged firmly under the hedge. ‘It was obvious then to me,’ he later said, ‘that there had been foul play, and I said so to Potter and Valender who were standing nearby.’

‘Ray,’ Lomasney said over his shoulder, ‘you had better go home and ring up Stratford Police. Tell them that a man has been murdered and ask them to send someone in authority at once.’

Valender left immediately on his task.

‘When was the last time you saw Walton alive?’ Lomasney, getting to his feet, asked Potter.

‘About ten minutes or a quarter past twelve,’ said Potter, ‘when I came to feed the cattle and sheep down there.’

Some distance away in the same field, Lomasney could just make out the darkened shapes of several calves. He turned his attention again to the body. The dead man’s trousers were unfastened at the top, and the zipper was down. Walton’s belt lay across his thighs. The jacket and waistcoat were also unbuttoned; the man’s braces appeared torn in the back and unfastened in the front. Lomasney shone his torch in the general vicinity of the body. About 3½ yards from where Walton lay, he saw a walking stick lying near the fence separating Potter and Valender’s property. He picked it up and studied it closely in the light of his torch.

‘Look at this,’ he said, motioning to Potter. ‘Blood and hair.’

Indeed, the handled-end of the stick appeared to have been used as a weapon. Seeing the blood seemed to incite some visceral response in Potter.

‘It’s a devil,’ Potter said, ‘this happening on my land. What will the public say? You know what they are round Quinton.’

This statement is interesting in light of the rumours and speculation that would eventually swirl about the case. Lomasney does not articulate in his statement what Potter may have meant when he said this, but one might assume the farmer was referring to the superstitious nature of villagers in Upper and Lower Quinton. Potter, a lifelong resident of the area, must have surely grown up hearing stories of local hauntings and witchcraft.

Valender, meanwhile, had hurried back to his house and telephoned the superintendent at Stratford-upon-Avon Police Station.

Other men soon joined Potter, Lomasney, and Harry Peachey – who loitered quietly nearby – in the field. At 7.45 p.m., an Inspector Chester and Sergeant Bailey from the Warwickshire County Constabulary arrived. In their wake, Harry Beasley soon followed with his brother in tow and another local, one Mr Nicholls. While escorting Edith back to the village, away from the nightmare in the field, Beasley had encountered his wife, who had come looking for him. Explaining what had happened, he left Edith in his wife’s care and ran to fetch his brother and Mr Nicholls, both of whom lived nearby, for assistance. The two men retrieved a stretcher from an ambulance billeted at The Firs and returned to the field. The growing number of newcomers now seemed to only agitate Potter’s discomfort.

‘I’m famished,’ he said to Lomasney. ‘I’ll be getting home.’

Lomasney watched Potter retreat into the darkness and head back to The Firs. As Potter left, Dr A.R. McWhinny, who had a private practice in Stratford and was summoned by the police, climbed over the fence and into the field. He would be the first medical expert to examine the body. His notes detail the brutality of the crime:

The body was lying on its left side with the knees and hips in a bent position, and was about one yard from the hedge facing the body and two yards from the hedge running at right angles to this hedge.

There was a gash on the right side of the neck involving the main structures of the neck, and the cut ends of the main vessel and the lacerated trachea (windpipe) could be seen. The blade of a billhook was in situ in the wound. The tip of the blade being at least buried four inches in the tissue at the root of the neck.

The head was turned to the left side and the handle of the billhook lay across the face in a position nearly parallel to the long axis of the body.

In addition to the wound already described, the face was impaled by a pitch fork, one prong of which had entered on either side of the face. On the right side, the point of entrance was just below and in front of the angle of the jaw, and on the left side appeared to be at a somewhat lower level. The handle of the fork had been pressed backwards and the end of the handle was wedged under the cross member of the hedge behind the head, thus anchoring the head to the ground.

The handle of the billhook, which was lying free, was approximately parallel with the handle of the fork.

By now, the field was thrumming with activity. Officers from the Stratford-upon-Avon police department, as well as Detective-Superintendent Alec Spooner of the Warwickshire County Constabulary, who initially led the investigation, had arrived. Police Constable 148 Arthur Nicholls photographed the body, forever capturing the scene in grisly black and white. At 11.30 p.m., Professor James M. Webster of the West Midland Forensic Science Laboratory arrived to examine the body. Webster was a pathologist of high reputation, prompting one newspaper to declare that he was ‘as famous as any figure who ever helped solve a crime excepting, perhaps, Sherlock Holmes’.

Shining his torch, Webster could see the ground beneath Walton’s head was soaked with blood. The pathologist’s first order of business was to remove the hook and fork from the body, which he did with considerable effort. The tines of the pitchfork had been ‘plunged into the body a full three-quarters of their length’. Because the fork’s handle had been wedged under the bush, the body had to be pushed down slightly in order to free the handle from its entanglement. Kneeling beside the body, Webster discovered Walton’s extremities and several of his ‘small joints’ were free of rigor mortis. Even now, the victim’s body retained some of its heat. Webster pulled a thermometer from his case and, ‘per rectune,’ noted the body temperature at 88 degrees. Taking into account the cold night air, he mentally worked through the calculations of his trade, computing the hourly rate the temperature of one’s body drops upon death. The body’s overall lack of rigidity and its residual warmth suggested Walton had been dead no more than ten hours.

While Webster examined the body, Detective Inspector Toombs of the Warwickshire County Constabulary made his way through the fields and churchyard to The Firs, the home and farm of Alfred Potter. It was 11 p.m. when Toombs sat at Potter’s kitchen table, removed a notebook from his coat pocket, and conducted the investigation’s first formal interview. As evident by Toombs’s hand-written notes, it was a short interrogation and did not reveal much.

Potter said he went that morning to the College Arms, the pub in Lower Quinton, with another local farmer. He was not there long and left at noon, making a special point to check the time. From the pub, he walked to the lower slope of Meon Hill and entered a field adjacent to the one where Walton was busy trimming the hedges. He could see Walton about 600 yards away and saw the old man still had about 6 to 10 yards of hedge to trim. When the body was discovered later that night, it was clear Walton had trimmed an additional 4 yards of hedge since Potter last saw him that afternoon, which equalled about thirty minutes of work.

‘What sort of man was Walton?’ asked Toombs.

‘He was an inoffensive type,’ Potter said, ‘but would speak his mind if necessary.’

At 1.45 a.m., Webster ordered the body be removed and taken to the mortuary at General Hospital in Stratford-ipon-Avon, where Webster would perform the autopsy at noon on 15 February. As the body was lifted onto a stretcher, Webster noted the face was covered in blood. There was also a ‘considerable amount’ of blood on the ground. Valender, who had since returned to the field, helped place the body in a handcart and push it to a waiting ambulance in Upper Quinton. He, too, saw Walton’s head ‘was covered in blood’. Accounts of the crime published in the years since have claimed Walton’s face was frozen in an expression of terror, yet nowhere is such a thing noted in the official case records. Certainly, the people in the field that night never recorded such a detail in their statements – nor did Webster make note of any such facial expression when conducting his autopsy.

In fact, many legitimate details surrounding the circumstances of how Walton’s body was found have been lost to fabrication over the years. The Encyclopedia of Witches, Witchcraft, and Wicca states Walton’s body was ‘found lying face-up beneath a willow tree on Meon Hill’. Likewise, in Devil’s Dominion: The Complete Story of Hell and Satanism in the Modern World, Anthony Masters writes that Walton ‘was found, after a day’s work, lying underneath a willow tree. There was a look of utter terror on his face. His own pitchfork was driven through his neck, nearly severing his head.’ Famed crime and occult historian Colin Wilson references the willow tree in his 1973 book, The Occult: A History, as does journalist John Parker in his 1993 tome, At the Heart of Darkness: Witchcraft, Black Magic and Satanism Today. As official documentation reveals, Walton was found lying near a hedge and not beneath a willow tree. So, why has the tree become such a repeated component of the story? According to The Witches’ Craft: The Roots of Witchcraft & Magical Transformation:

The Willow tree (Salix alba) is associated with the Underworld and such goddesses as Proserpina and Hectate. The willow was also associated with the serpent, perhaps due to its slender branches. The willow is a tree found near streams, rivers, and swamplands. Its connection with water linked it to the moon and thereby to the moon goddess. It was an ancient practice to place willow branches in the beds of women who were infertile. This was believed to draw mystical serpents that would help with impregnation. From the time of antiquity, the wands used in moon magic were made of willow. It also has a long history for being used to make straps for flagellation. These were used in rites of initiation and purification, as well as sex-magic rituals incorporating pain and pleasure. A length of willow was also traditionally used to bind together the materials for a Witch’s broom, the willow being sacred to Hectate.

Another claim made in subsequent accounts about the killing regards the removal of the pitchfork. In his statement to Scotland Yard, Webster said he pulled the fork free of Walton’s body and that it took some effort. More than a handful of published sources since then have claimed the pitchfork was plunged so deeply into Walton’s prostrate form, it took the might of two uniformed officers to pull the implement free. Nowhere in the official case files is this assertion supported.

It’s believed by many that Charles Walton’s death was a ritual sacrifice. The violent yet particular way in which he died, claim such believers, suggest that black magic was at play. They point to the ancient Anglo-Saxon practice known as ‘stacung’ (sticking) – stabbing one’s enemy with a pin or thorn and praying the wound causes death – often inflicted upon those believed to be witches. The method did have certain drawbacks, for it’s difficult to plunge a thorn into someone’s anatomy and then stand over their writhing form and pray for their death. Nevertheless, in early times, ‘stacung’ proved an effective way of getting rid of one’s enemy. ‘As the Anglo-Saxons were very reckless in the infliction of wounds, and as the spikes were inserted vigorously in the most tender parts of the person, the incantation was commonly successful, and the victim perished, in their opinion of the curse, but more probably of the wounds.’ In the case of Charles Walton, however, the victim’s own pitchfork had been used in place of a pin or thorn. As further proof of some sort of sacrifice, many accounts point out the date of the murder – 14 February – and the fact Walton’s blood was left to be absorbed by the ground, a practice believed by some to return life to dead soil. Valentine’s Day, according to multiple published works on the case, was the day ancient Druids offered a blood-sacrifice to Mother Earth in exchange for a healthy crop season. Although citing a lack of evidence to support such notions, The Encyclopedia of Witches, Witchcraft, and Wicca states:

The crops of 1944 had been poor, and the spring of 1945 did not look promising, either. Walton was known to harness huge toads to toy ploughs and send them running into the fields. In 1662 a Scottish witch, Isobel Gowdie, confessed to doing the same thing in order to blast the crops. Perhaps someone thought Walton was using witchcraft to blast his neighbour’s crops. Significantly, Walton’s blood had been allowed to drain into the ground. According to old beliefs, a witch’s power could be neutralised by ‘blooding’. Many accused witches bled to death from cutting and slashing, usually done to the forehead. The practice was done in certain parts of England from the 16th century up to 19th century.

To claim the killer ‘allowed’ Walton’s blood to be absorbed by the ground is a stretch. The old man’s throat had been slashed three times with a billhook, severing veins and arteries; the tines of a pitchfork had pinned his head to the ground. Naturally, such wounds would result in the spilling of a lot of blood, which would seep into the ground whether the killer wanted it to or not.

There was little more police could do that night. Having helped with the body’s removal, Lomasney returned to the field and watched the other detectives and officers leave. He was soon left alone in the cold, swirling dark to guard the crime scene. He remained on duty until relieved at 3 a.m. by War Reserve Constable Harris. Two hours later, Police Constable John West relieved Harris. The cold and boredom were the two biggest challenges facing West that morning. All was quiet through the dark hours, except the rustling of dead branches in the wind and the occasional sound of a farm animal somewhere in the night.

Shortly after 7 a.m., the first grey light of dawn began to reveal itself in the east, pleasing the constable, for the night-time temperature had been bitter. As the pale winter sun slowly began its climb, West saw a man walking in the field alongside the hedge Walton had been cutting. When the man was no more than a few yards from where Walton had been found, West raised his hand.

‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Don’t go near there.’

‘Good morning,’ the man said. ‘It’s been a bit of a frost ain’t it?’

‘Yes,’ West replied. ‘It was very sharp an hour ago. Are you the farmer?’

‘Yes. My name’s Potter; I’m the one who found him. The man’s niece thought it funny that Walton had not come home. She went to look for him and came to the farm with Mr Beasley, and we all went to look for him. Me and Mr Beasley was just in front going up the hill, and I saw him. I told Mr Beasley to send the niece back, and I went over to him.’

As Potter spoke, he kept staring at the spot where Walton’s body was found. The grass, wet with morning condensation, was stained with Walton’s blood. West had not asked Potter to elaborate on the previous night’s grim discovery – the man just seemed compelled to share his story. As he continued staring at the bloodstained grass, he said something that would become a focus point of the investigation.

‘I didn’t touch him,’ he told West, ‘but I did just put my fingers on the stale of the pitchfork.’

Why Potter never mentioned touching the pitchfork to Lomasney at the crime scene or when he gave his brief statement to Toombs is a mystery. West said nothing and allowed Potter to continue rambling.

‘I shouted to someone in the next field to fetch the police,’ he said. ‘PC Lomasney arrived and examined him. He was all right earlier on when I came up to the cattle. I saw him from over the other field.’

Potter paused and surveyed the surrounding scenery.

‘These blasted Italians are poaching all over the place, and it might be one of them,’ he said, referring to the Italian inmates of a POW camp in the nearby village of Long Marston. Although technically prisoners, they seemed free to leave the camp whenever they wanted and were often sited walking the slopes of Meon Hill or strolling the nearby lanes. Potter rifled through his pockets for something and pulled out a pack of Player’s cigarettes. He offered one to West, who accepted. Potter offered the constable a light and asked if West had been on duty all night.

‘No,’ West said. ‘I’m a relief man.’

Potter said something non-committal and took a deep draw on his cigarette. His eyes again rested on the place where Walton fell. He made another comment about the weather.

‘Well,’ he said after a moment of brief contemplation, ‘I better get some work done.’

Potter bid West a good day and walked back to his farm.

The mortuary at General Hospital in Stratford-upon-Avon, with its white tiles and shining instruments, smelled of antiseptic and formaldehyde. Dressed in a leather apron, Webster stripped the corpse and, with some effort, straightened the crooked form on the metal table. Rigor mortis was now present throughout the entire body. Under the glare of the mortuary lights, it was evident a life in the fields, performing manual labour, had benefitted Walton’s physique. Although he appeared to have been well nourished, his body was wiry and corded with muscle. With a sponge, Webster wiped away the dry blood and commenced his external examination of the body, noting: ‘The deceased was a little, rather bent old man, with a certain amount of curvature of the spine.’ Much has been made of the injuries Walton suffered during the attack. Subsequent accounts of the crime have stated the killer repeatedly carved the sign of the cross into Walton’s body. The official case file, however, not once mentions any disfigurement of this kind. Here, taken directly from Webster’s autopsy report, are the external injuries noted on Walton’s body:

1. There were four large bruises on the back of the right hand and back of the right forearm. These were definitely ante-mortem, and the blood had not clotted.

2. There was a small abrasion on the point of the right elbow.

3. There was flap laceration on the back of the index finger of the left hand, such as could have been caused by the old man defending himself against a cutting instrument. There were no injuries to the palms of the hands.

4. On the top of the left shoulder there were superficial abrasions and bruises, such as could have been caused by the hayfork, which I saw.

5. There were seven lacerated wounds of the scalp situated on the back and top of the head. None of these wounds led down to the bone. Later in the post-mortem, I ascertained that these wounds were superimposed upon deep-seated bruises in the scalp.

6. On palpitation, I ascertained that the left clavicle had been completely severed from the sternum.

7. By palpitation, I ascertained that there were several ribs broken on the left side and later in the dissection I ascertained that the ribs that were broken were the second ribs and the sixth to the ninth ribs inclusive. There was free extravasation of blood in the region of the fractured ribs.

8. The main wound in the neck extended from a point about 1in below the point of the chin down to the suprasternal notch. It was obvious that this hole, which measured 4¼in by 3½in had been made by more than one slash. The tissues on the front of the neck were grossly cut about, and there was a free communication between this hole and the left pleural cavity.

On either side of the slash were the puncture wounds caused by hayfork prongs. Webster reached for a nearby tray and picked up his scalpel. He made a large Y-shaped incision, which ran down from both shoulders to just below the navel. There was no ingested blood in the stomach, though Webster did find the remains of a recently ingested meal, which had included currants. It was no doubt the slice of cake prepared and packed by Edith. Webster picked up a bone saw and cut through the rib cage. The heart appeared to be ‘remarkably healthy for an old man of this age’. The lungs revealed a moderate degree of bronchitis but had otherwise been healthy in life. The left tine of the hayfork had punctured the left lung.

Peering into the chest cavity, Webster saw the left clavicle had been completely severed from the sternum. The pectoral muscle was severely bruised, and the second, sixth, and ninth ribs were broken. Moving up the body, he began to dissect the neck and saw just how deep the fatal blow had struck. All the major muscles and vessels in the neck had been slashed. The blade had severed the thyroid gland and the longitudinal ligament of the spine on the left-hand side. The hayfork tines had punctured the pleural cavity. The trachea and upper respiratory tract, upon internal inspection, revealed the killer had actually delivered multiple blows to Walton’s neck. Webster wrote:

These were in three sections, a part consisting of the epiglottis, a second part consisting of part of the hyoid bone and the thyroid cartilage, including the vocal cords; a third part consisting of the trachea. This division of the respiratory tract clearly showed that three separate and distinct blows by a cutting instrument had been delivered.

The esophagus had also been completely severed. Removing the skullcap, Webster saw no trauma to the skull or brain. None of the lacerations on the back and top of the scalp had penetrated down to the bone.

The autopsy done, Webster made note of his verdict:

This had been a remarkably healthy old man for his age. The cause of death is quite clear. He died from shock and hemorrhage due to grave injuries to the neck and chest. These injuries had been caused by two types of weapon, namely, a cutting weapon and a stabbing weapon such as the two weapons I found in situ in the field. Further, the cutting weapon had been wielded at least three times and with great violence. The old man had defended himself, as shown by the cut upon the left hand and the bruises on the back of the right hand and forearm. Death had occurred in my opinion somewhere between 1 p.m. and 2 p.m. on the 14th February, 1945.

How did the supposed carving of the cross become part of the Walton case folklore? Contemporary newspaper accounts of the slaying not once reported the killer leaving a cross-shaped mark on his victim. Of course, the police would be unlikely to share that information with reporters. Perhaps, then, local word-of-mouth – the rumour mill – is to blame.