Bloodie Bones

by Lucienne Boyce

  Dan continued to the lane leading to Oldfield Hall, walking slowly so he did not miss the entrance to Drovers’ Way. It was nothing but a grassy trail now, but Mrs Singleton had told him that it had once been an important thoroughfare used by men driving cattle to the markets of Bath and Bristol. One of Lord Oldfield’s hated new fences ran parallel with the road on the far side of a ditch, its line broken by a gate that Dan had not noticed in the dark. He jumped over the trench, hid his parcel by the gatepost, climbed over, and dropped down into the wood.

  The change in the atmosphere was immediate. There was a stillness and silence under the trees which the twittering of the birds could not disturb. Their chatter seemed cheerful at first, but as Dan went further down the track it began to sound shrill and hostile. All around him twigs snapped and leaves rustled. Sometimes he twisted round, expecting to catch a glimpse of something behind him, and often, in the spinning of a leaf or vibration of a branch, he was sure that some creature had just darted into cover. He felt that there were eyes upon him: secretive, unwelcoming, inhuman. He would have felt more at home in the alleys around Chick Lane.

  Yet the forest was also man’s kingdom. This was his road, and the forest bore signs of his activity. Old or diseased trees had been cut down, others planted, copses cleared. This was Castle’s world, and if it told Dan anything about the keeper, it was that he must have had steady nerves.

  The keeper’s cottage lay in a clearing on the other side of a stream. The only bridge was a tree, left in the state in which it had fallen with its surface unlevelled, though its branches had been cut for firewood years ago. It would be a difficult crossing in wet or icy conditions, but today was dry and the stream was not running high. Even if Dan tumbled he risked nothing worse than wet feet. And tumble he almost did when halfway across a crow launched itself from a tree with a loud croak and flapped low over his head.

  The cottage was an old, stout building, thatched and gabled, and surrounded by outhouses. There was a chicken coop, and a row of kennels where Castle had kept dogs he was training or nursing, both empty. He had decorated the outside of the largest shed with rows of corpses: rats, moles, jays, magpies, squirrels and others too decayed to recognise. Taking these as his starting point, Dan followed Lord Oldfield’s memorised directions into the wood until he came to the clearing where Josh Castle had been bludgeoned to death while he was cutting down the Bloodie Bones effigy. It was easy to recognise because the ground was so churned up.

  The trees closed behind him, but he could still glimpse the cottage. Josh would have been able to see the lights at his own window if he looked back. In every other direction there was nothing but forest. Perhaps the keeper had been able to read its shapes and sounds, but Dan could not, even in daylight. Not a very bright daylight either, and growing dimmer. He shuffled about the mossy ground for a while, though there was little hope of finding any trace of the killer after five days. During that time it had been trampled by Lord Oldfield’s men, and then the coroner’s thirteen-man jury who, as was the custom, had been brought to view the murder scene.

  Dan went back to the shed with the gibbet. Inside were neat stacks of spades, billhooks, rolls of twine, nets, and a couple of sprung animal traps that he took care not to touch. There was a large copper for preparing animal feed. Another outhouse contained straw-lined hutches which had held ferrets used for chasing rabbits out of their warrens.

  After prowling about outside, he went to the house, where there was nothing more gruesome than a horseshoe nailed over the door. The latch was stiff, but the door opened easily once he had worked it loose. He stepped down onto the brick floor. The furniture was simple, but clean and not uncomfortable: a table and bench, a wooden chair with cushions on it in front of the hearth, rugs on the floor. Though the hearth had been cold many days, the smell of smoke mingled with the scent of the dried herbs hanging from the oak rafters. There were hooks in the beam where Castle’s favourite gun had been kept ready to hand, but all his weapons had been removed.

  The room was tidy, and Dan was beginning to doubt Abe’s claim that Lord Oldfield had smashed up the place until he noticed pieces of broken earthenware heaped on one of the shelves. He lifted the lid of a feed bucket and found it full of broken glass bottles. Their contents had oozed out to make a slimy mess at the bottom, with a predominant aroma of aniseed. The lamp on the mantelpiece had no glass shade. Presumably that too had been shattered.

  Near the window was a small bookcase. Besides the usual sort of books such as a family Bible and a well-used edition of Archer’s Every Man His Own Doctor, there was a Tom Jones which looked well-read, as did a Works of Shakespeare. There was also a copy of Lord Chesterfield’s Letters to His Son with several passages underlined: ‘Your manner of speaking is full as important as the matter…loud laughter is the characteristic of folly and ill-manners…an awkward fellow eats with his knife to the great danger of his mouth; picks his teeth with his fork, puts his fingers in his nose, or blows it and looks afterwards in his handkerchief.’ Castle must have had a self-improving turn of mind.

  In the sideboard, Dan found neatly organised copies of the Sporting Magazine, probably passed on by Lord Oldfield after he had read them. There were bundles of receipts for feed, gunpowder and other items connected with Castle’s work. The only documents in the keeper’s handwriting were a book of accounts, and a game book recording dates of shoots and number of kills.

  Dan poked about in the pantry among animal feed bins, a meat safe, cheese dish and milk jug, all empty. There was a bath tub propped against the end wall with a dish of soap nearby. Like the newspapers, the soap came from the Hall and was quality, scented stuff. Washing under a pump or in the stream had not been good enough for Castle.

  He opened the door at the foot of the stairs and went up the steep, dark steps. There were three rooms under the eaves. Two of them were small, and the lingering smell in one of these suggested that it had recently been used to store apples and vegetables. A beer crate held empty bottles.

  In the other store room were boxes of old clothes, walking sticks, balls of string, dismantled guns and other bits and pieces. Castle’s bedroom was at the front of the cottage, overlooking the stream. Like the downstairs quarters, it was tidy and simply furnished. There were curtains on the windows, rugs on the floor, and a clean coverlet and sheets on the bed.

  Most of the clothes in the press were of workaday corduroy, coarse linen and durable leather, and were well-worn. There were also half a dozen fine cotton shirts and three sets of Sunday-best breeches and jackets, with hat, scarf, and a smart pair of shoes to wear with them. These fancy items were all new and hardly used. Even if Castle had been a regular churchgoer, they were more than Dan would have expected him to own or have occasion to wear. A gamekeeper-dandy was not a breed he had come across before.

  Lord Oldfield must have given Josh the clothes. The hand-me-downs theory also explained the items on top of the chest of drawers: a mirror, shaving set and silver-backed hairbrush. What Dan could not account for was the posy, carefully dried and placed in a small blue jug. It was hard to imagine a gamekeeper taking the trouble to pick and preserve wildflowers with no medicinal value, but there they were.

  Dan had found nothing of any relevance, though he had learned a little about Castle: the gamekeeper had not drunk anything stronger than beer, he had been clean and tidy in his habits, fastidious and even vain about his appearance, and had spent his evenings teaching himself how to behave in polite society, though why a gamekeeper needed to know was a puzzle.

  The light was fading fast and the cottage, with its small windows, was already dark. Dan left everything as he had found it, made his way back along Drover’s Way, and retrieved his purchases. He was glad to leave the cottage and wood behind him.

  *

  Whatever Singleton and Dunnage had planned for Thursday might have something to do with Dan’s investigation, or it might not. Whatever it was,
they had been furtive about it, and he kept his eyes and ears open. All day Tuesday people came and went at the forge, but the talk was never about more than the job in hand or snippets of local gossip. Singleton did not go to the Fox and Badger in the evening, so there was no chance of picking up anything there either. The next day was the same, and Dan was no closer to making a discovery. If all else failed, he would have to take the risk of following Singleton on the following evening. Then, after supper on Wednesday, Singleton announced a trip to the Fox and Badger.

  There were already a few of the regulars in the bar. Girtin was on the scrounge as usual. Dan bought him a drink on the principle that it is always wise to win the trust of a skulking fellow – you never know what he might see. Abe and a few of his young friends were making a racket over a game of dominoes, shouting in each other’s faces and clacking the pieces on the table.

  A tall, grizzled man in heavy, travel-stained garments sat quietly in one corner, smoking a pipe. Buller placed gin and hot water in front of him and left him stirring sugar into his glass. When they’d had their tankards filled, Singleton led Dan towards the stranger, who carried on mixing his drink as they sat down.

  “Warneford, this is Dan Fielding, the man who beat Bold Ben.”

  Warneford put down his spoon. “He doesn’t look – ”

  “I know, I don’t look up to it.”

  The man blew on the steaming liquid and took a pull at it. “I hear you’re pretty handy with your fists, though.”

  “Handy enough.”

  “Is that how you make your living?”

  “Not unless I have to.”

  “Pity. I know a man who wants to arrange something with one of the Bristol boys at Kingswood Fair at the end of the month. You’d make a bit of money.”

  “Good fighters in Bristol,” Dan said. “But no thanks.”

  He had never wanted to go professional, though Noah once had hopes in that direction. He did not want to make his fortune, if fortune he was to make, fighting for a purse. Not that there were not huge sums to be made, but Dan knew of few boxers who had managed to hold on to their money. Few, too, who had not died young with their insides punched to pulp; or wrecked their constitutions by trying to live fast with their aristocratic patrons; or fought beyond the powers of their dwindling strength and ended their careers in humiliating defeat.

  “How about you?” Dan asked.

  “Animal doctor. Travelling. Ever been in prison?”

  “Never been caught.”

  “At what?”

  Singleton had cited honesty as a desirable quality when he took Dan on, but Dan knew that with most men honesty was a shifting notion. It depended on how it related to their own convenience. A tasty rabbit stew, for instance, was a great convenience. He had no fear that Singleton would dismiss him after his confession, which would be true so far as it went – and Dan always found that a little bit of truth went a long way when it came to making his cover more convincing.

  “Shops and pockets.”

  Warneford laughed. “So that’s your game?”

  “Not now. Seen too many hanged or transported.”

  “What if you could make money with your fists outside the ring?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can use men like you.”

  “To do what?”

  “Take a risk. Keep your mouth shut. Step up to the mark if it becomes necessary.”

  “I can do all that.”

  Warneford leaned forward. “Then join the others tomorrow night in Barcombe Wood. I’ve orders for game from a number of poulterers in Bristol. Guaranteed sales, and a good share of the profit for you.”

  Even though the sale of game was as illegal as the taking of it, pheasant, rabbit, and partridge hung in many a shop window.

  “I know nothing about hunting.”

  “You don’t need to. Just be prepared to put up a fight if the keepers get in the way.”

  “Who else is going? Do I know them?”

  “Are you in?” countered Warneford.

  “I need to know who I’d be trusting.”

  “Me,” said Singleton. “And I’ll vouch for the others.”

  “How many keepers?”

  “Three,” Singleton said. “Caleb Witt, George Potter, Dick Ford.”

  Dan took a drink and pretended to think about it. “Very well.”

  *

  Nothing was said about the night’s arrangements during work next day, and Dan thought it wiser not to ask. After supper, Singleton made his usual announcement, and he and Dan went next door to the Fox. Mrs Singleton must have known about her husband’s nocturnal activities, but she also knew better than to let on that she did. The world was full of wives pretending ignorance about where the money came from. Sometimes it was safer for the women that way, sometimes not. Since a wife could not testify against her husband it made no difference to Dan’s work.

  They had their regular drink and chat with the people who came and went. Warneford had left the village, wisely putting himself miles from Barcombe on the night of a raid. Yet still no mention was made of it. At ten Singleton gathered up their tankards and carried them to the bar, where he had a low conversation with Buller. When they were done, he beckoned to Dan, who rose and followed him out.

  “Where are we going?” Dan asked.

  “Dunnage’s.”

  That made two poachers Dan knew about. Singleton did not want to talk though, so Dan did not ask who else would be there. Acting nosy with gossips like Mrs Singleton and the shopkeeper Travell was one thing, but Singleton was not the man to quiz.

  They set off down Back Lane. Where it turned a corner to run parallel to the High Street, they carried straight on along a stony path between tangled, sharp-thorned hedges. They followed this covered track for about a mile before emerging into open country and a blast of cold wind. They crossed three fields to the top of a low rise. A shallow valley dipped below them with a farmhouse standing snug at the bottom of it.

  Singleton knocked and they were admitted to a large, flagged kitchen with a low-raftered ceiling. The room smelt of smoked ham and punch. It was clean but bare, not a homely place. The rest of the house was dark and silent. There was no one else living there, no wife or maidservant to help Dunnage with his housekeeping. Two black and white sheepdogs dozed beside the fire.

  “Well, here he is,” Singleton said, stamping the mud off his boots.

  So Dan was expected. They must have agreed on his admission beforehand, possibly with one dissenter. Abe, who was slouching against a wall trying to look tough, uttered a contemptuous, “Yeah?”

  Travell stood near the fire and gave a friendly nod. He was not all talk then, thought Dan, though he did not look the most stout-hearted of the crew, judging from his nervous gulps at his drink.

  A young lad leaned against the table, gnawing at his fingernails. When he was introduced as Walter Halling he gave a preoccupied smile, then went back to his brooding.

  While Dunnage doled out cakes and wine, Abe sidled up to Walter.

  “We’re a player short for the skittles on Saturday. We’ve never been beat yet, and don’t want to be, not by the Paulton lot. You’ve got to make up the team.”

  “Can’t,” Walter mumbled.

  “What do you mean, can’t?”

  “I’m working. Uncle’s had a big order for boots from the mine.”

  “On a Saturday afternoon? Tell the old bugger what to do with his job and come to Paulton with us.”

  “No,” Walter said, and whatever else he might have said was lost when Dunnage called the company to order.

  The farmer raised his glass. “Here’s success to our venture!”

  When they had drunk the toast, which made Walter choke, Dunnage put down his glass and took up a Bible from the dresser at the side of the room. He laid it in
the middle of the table and they shuffled in a circle around it. Each man placed his hands on the book, Dan following their lead.

  Dunnage fixed his eyes on the sooty ceiling and chanted, “Gathered here by moonlight, we swear – ”

  Abe pouted. “Do we have to go through this rigmarole every time?”

  A spasm of irritation passed through the clasped hands.

  “You know the rules,” Dunnage said.

  “I’ll swear a thousand oaths,” Walter cried.

  “Just get on with it, blast you,” growled Singleton.

  “All right, all right! No need to huff it,” Abe grumbled. “I only wondered.”

  Dunnage began again. “Gathered here by moonlight, we swear…”

  They muttered the words after him. “That we are here as brothers. That we will defend and protect one another as brothers. That he who betrays or deserts his brothers will pay in blood. His blood we will drain from his body. His skin we will flay from his back. His flesh we will feed to the crows. His bones we will burn and his soul we will curse to Hell and Damnation. Amen.”

  Dunnage held out the book and they kissed it in turn. Then he produced a piece of white chalk and drew a star on their hats so that they would know one another in the dark. Next came some pieces of charcoal with which they blacked their faces. Finally, the farmer rolled back a muddy rug and lifted up some floorboards to reveal a number of guns, which he handed round.

  Dunnage thrust a gun at Dan, who hesitated. “Warneford mentioned fists, not guns.”

  “You’ll need it,” Dunnage said. “The keepers shoot to kill.”

  “They what?”

  “You’ve sworn now – ” Abe began.

  “And I won’t go back on my word,” Dan snapped back, wishing for the chance to exercise his fists on the young coxcomb.

  “It’s true though, Dan,” Singleton said. “But if we run into the keepers, they’ll think twice about starting anything if they see we are armed.”

  In Dan’s experience, the more guns there were, the more likely was a confrontation, but he kept that thought to himself and said, “Is that how that gamekeeper – Castle? – got killed? You had a run-in?”