Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 104, No. 4, August 22, 1936

And what at first glance had appeared to be savage brutality, the work of a sadist killer revelling in his job, now took on another and more revealing significance.

The butcher had gone to incredible pains to destroy every mark of identification. He had made sure no identification could ever be made of the remains.

Both heads had been scalped to destroy hair. So that the eyes might not be identified by size, color, by a possible cast or other defect, they had been taken out. Noses, ears, lips had been cut off and faces skinned. Skin had been removed from the limbs. Toes which by their nails, malformations, corns or bunions could have been identified had been cut off. Fingers had been mangled and severed.

The tongue tip of the elder woman had been cut off. The doctors looked at each other with startled surmise. Had the woman talked too much and so stirred her killer to a madman’s fury.

Police and experts bending over the hideous relics, turning over the rags in which they had been wrapped, might well have at this point given up hope of bringing home the killing to any individual. Where were they to look for him in the area of England and Scotland, or even further afield.

Surely it must be some demon of perversity which lures a man to the hideous crime of murder with the promise of safety — with the deluding gift of being able to commit the perfect crime — and then with snickering glee sees him leave on the scene of his crime a damning clue to his identity.

How did the police with almost unerring determination put their finger on the map and say — look here for a murderer.

Wrapped round one of the bundles had been a sheet of paper, the picture section of a newspaper, the Sunday Graphic, dated September 15, a paper distributed all over both Scotland and England. How then was it possible to say where this particular copy came from?

Because the picture page was a slip or insert page for local circulation only. It depicted the crowning of a carnival queen for the town of Morecambe in Lancashire, England. The page was circulated only in Morecambe and the four mile distant town of Lancaster, the county seat, both of which lay roughly a hundred miles south of Moffat.

It was reasonable to believe that the person who had wrapped this bundle had received the newspaper on the morning of Sunday, September 15, in one or the other of these two towns.

Who was this person, author of the abominable crime?

Inquiries addressed to the Chief Constable of Lancaster, Henry James Vann, brought the reply that no one had been reported missing there, but the affair took another turn on October 2.

On that day, a Mrs. Rogerson called at the police office and reported that for three weeks she had had no word of her daughter Mary who had been nursemaid to Dr. Ruxton.

“What does Dr. Ruxton say?” asked Vann.

“Lying hound as he is, he says the lass went away with the missus to have a child. Mary was a decent lass. Ah’d have known if she was that way.”

“You say Mrs. Ruxton is away, too?”

“Yes, sir. I can’t make nothing of it. Mary would have written me, but Ah’ve had never a postcard from her.”

Vann questioned the poor woman. She had last seen Mary on her half day off, September 12. That was the last time she saw her. Not hearing from or seeing her, they grew anxious, Mary’s brother saw Dr. Ruxton who said Mary had gone off with his wife, Sunday morning, the 15th. The doctor came to see them a week later and said Mary was pregnant and his wife had taken her away to be treated. He blamed a laundry boy.

The indignant parents waited till Oct. 1 and then went to see Dr. Ruxton. He told them he could not find out where Mary and his wife had gone. They had taken thirty pounds which he had had in his safe. When that was gone he expected them to come back. He asked the Rogersons to wait and not inform the police, but they could wait no longer.

When the unhappy mother left his office, Vann sat thoughtful and concerned. Two women missing, neither of them reported as such. It was strange, it was suspicious. Both gone from this doctor’s house.

Twice before there had been trouble between husband and wife at 2 Dalton Square: Early in 1934, Mrs. Ruxton had asked protection. And in May of this year only, Dr. Ruxton had made some excited statements about his wife and a young solicitor of the town, and asked if the postal authorities could not intercept correspondence or telephone messages.

III

Vann decided to act. He sent for Dr. Ruxton who came at once, and after being questioned, said he had made no report because of possible harm to his practice. His wife and Mary Rogerson had gone away to Edinburgh. He had written there but received the letter back. He showed the letter.

“Belle can’t have any love for the children,” he said bitterly. “Not even a postcard for our six year old Elizabeth.”

A description of Mary Rogerson was circulated. Next day Dr. Ruxton called on Vann.