Peter Cushman lay dying on the pavement, his chest ripped open by the shotgun pellets; his coat, jacket and short sleeved diamond check pullover and grey flannel shirt ripped to b****y tattered rags.
Blood streamed from his body and wriggled snakelike into the gutter. Mrs. Joyce Farnham, the secretary for solicitor William Ormroyd, cradled the dying man in her lap, unmindful of the blood staining her Harris Tweed skirt and jacket. She had been sent out by Ormroyd to buy a packet of 20 Senior Service cigarettes and had just come out of the door when Peter was gunned down.
Without thinking she ran over to him, she had been an auxiliary nurse during the war and although she had never had to deal with gunshot wounds she knew the gaping holes in Peter’s chest were fatal. She was the mother of
