The Body in the Trees

by Richard James

  “Here we are, sir.”

  The little locomotive was something of a celebrity in the area. Known as the Larton Donkey, it chuffed its way along the line from Reading to Larton every hour and had done so for nearly twenty years. Only two coaches were given over to passengers at this time of day. The rest of the train comprised carriages for farming equipment and supplies. The inspector could make out a ploughshare and several bales of straw slung onto a low, open truck. He guessed that, upon its return, it would be laden with produce from the many farms and orchards that nestled in the Thames Valley, destined for markets around the Home Counties and beyond. As the engine idled at the platform, the two men stepped aboard and took their seats, ready for the twenty two minute journey that would see them step, with dusty boots, onto the hard and sun-baked platform at Larton.

  III

  In Chalk Wood

  William Oats ran his fingers through his hair. The travellers had made their home as usual in the quarry at Chalk Wood. On any ordinary day, it would be a short walk to find work in the orchards of Larton, most especially at Trevitt’s farm. But today was not an ordinary day.

  “Trevitt says he’ll come himself and pull you from your wagons,” Oats reported, a look of exasperation on his tired, lined face. He had the look about him of one worn down with years of care. The skin of his balding head shone like polished wood, and his deep-set eyes stared forlornly from beneath the promontory of his brow.

  “Let ’im,” came the response.

  Jared Stoker sat on a fallen log, his legs swinging nonchalantly before him, the long stem of a pipe clamped between his teeth. He was a slim-hipped and stringy man of twenty-five, but had the worldly-wise demeanour of someone twice his age. The down of a moustache lay languidly on his upper lip, the only adornment on an otherwise youthful face. His eyes were so dark as to be almost black and of such unfathomable depth it was impossible to discern what thoughts lay beneath. In all, he was of a Bohemian disposition. If his hair had not been tied back beneath a kerchief, it would surely have hung down to his shoulders. A blowsy shirt hung loose beneath a corduroy waistcoat, and his neck and wrists were hung with mysterious emblems. A tattoo sprouted from beneath the collar of his shirt and up onto his neck. For all that Oats could see, it depicted the head of a bird, possibly a crow.

  “Surely you’ll miss the pay?”

  “It's a worker’s market, Oats,” Stoker purred, drawing on his pipe. “Trevitt knows that.”

  Oats knew he was right. The recent campaigns waged in the name of Queen and country had depleted the numbers of young men fit for seasonal work. Stoker’s services and those of his men were now at a premium. Having spent the early summer at a farm further up the valley, one happy to pay whatever Stoker had demanded, they could no doubt afford to wait.

  Oats looked around him, wiping the sweat from his brow with a hand. Though now out of use, the chalk quarry had been worked for centuries. There were lines of cottages in the village that had sprung up specifically to house the quarry workers in the middle of the century, and many a local man, Oats among them, who could remember the feel of a pick in his hands. With larger and more profitable quarries opening up in more accessible parts of the valley, interest in Larton had waned. Now, the bright white escarpment that surrounded the hollow in which the travellers were camped was dotted with patches of green. Ferns and grasses had taken a hold of the chalk, their roots making their way with ease through the porous rock. Excepting the summer months, when the travellers” camp was pitched beneath the slopes, Oats thought the quarry a romantic place. He would often stand alone of an evening as the sun set over Chalk Wood, cocking an ear to hear again the tap of iron on chalk and the shouts and hollers of his fellow labourers. It was hard but honest work, and Oats could not help but feel a pang of guilt that his employment now consisted of pen pushing and the management of men.

  “We only ask for fifteen shillings and a morning off in three,” Stoker offered simply. “He knows the terms.”

  “That would break him,” Oats insisted. He resented having to deal with Stoker face to face but, with Cousins dead, the task now fell to him. “How many men do you have?”

  Stoker cast his eyes about the assembled camp. Four caravans were parked in a circle around the clearing, a vast pot bubbling and spitting from a fire that blazed between them. Beyond them, canvases were thrown across frames to provide yet more shelter. Naked or partially clothed children ran between them, squealing with delight. Lines of washing were hung between the trees. In a corner, half a dozen grazing horses flicked at the flies with their tails. Somewhere, some men were chopping wood. From a gap in the foliage came a woman with a brace of rabbits slung over her arm. Tossing her catch onto the ground by a caravan, she took the cheroot from her mouth and splashed her face in a pail of water. Three women gossiped as they worked near the fire, chopping and skinning a bird or two for dinner. Their eyes fell with suspicion on Trevitt’s man. Yet more stood around the camp either engaged in chores or waiting vacantly in the heat of the day.

  “There’s a dozen men here at Trevitt’s disposal,” Stoker announced, tapping the ash from the bowl of his pipe. “If he pays for them.” As if to suggest that he didn’t care much either way, Stoker leaned back along the log, placed his hands behind his head and closed his eyes against the sun.

  “There’s two hectares of cherries to be gathered,” thundered Oats.

  “Then let him ask about the village for help.”

  Oats knew that was out of the question. Trevitt had, in his adult years, made himself an enemy to so many people in Larton that he was barely spoken to in the streets. If truth be told, Oats wasn’t so much surprised by Stoker’s response as filled with dread at the prospect of relating it back to Trevitt. Flinging his arms in the air with exasperation, William Oats turned to leave the camp to its business. Just as he stepped from the clearing, however, he was surprised to be met by a representative of Larton Police Station. Silas Corrigan was dressed in his full regulation uniform, even on this hottest of days. From the buckles on his boots to the buttons on his coat, he seemed nothing less than the perfect model of the local constabulary. Even his hat seemed placed at the regulation angle.

  “Running errands, Mr Oats?” he leered, his thin face creasing into a smile. Police Constable Corrigan stood well over six feet tall, and would have been an intimidating presence were it not for his officious manner.

  “I am here on Maxwell Trevitt’s business,” Oats blinked, his thin shoulders slumping at the sight of the policeman.

  “There’s no sign of intimidation, I would hope?”

  “Not from our side,” Stoker interjected from where he lay.

  “You’ve got trouble enough to deal with, Jared Stoker.” Corrigan stepped through the undergrowth and further into the camp as he spoke, his keen eyes flitting along the caravans and tents in search of trouble. The women who stood about the camp retreated to the shadows as he approached and Oats noticed those chopping by the fire had ceased their toil to watch. Only one person was brave enough to draw nearer; the woman whom Oats had seen throw the rabbits to the ground. She drew her skirts about her as she sat next to Stoker, a defiant look upon her face.

  “There are those in the village,” began Corrigan accusingly, “complaining of an increase in thefts and burglaries.”

  “Then they must look to their neighbours,” the woman said, much to Stoker’s amusement.

  Corrigan was passing his eye along the lines of washing that hung from the trees. “There’s many a petticoat gone missing on washing day, and many a silk handkerchief taken from an open window.”

  “If they’re rich enough to afford a silk handkerchief,” the woman purred, rolling a cheroot between her fingers, “they’re rich enough to afford another.”

  Stoker barely bothered to hide his mirth. “I wouldn’t trade words with Ida, constable. She’s learned, don’t you know?” This last was spoken with as refined an accent as Stoker could muster, and was rewarded with a thum
p to the stomach from the lady in question.

  “If I was that learned, Jared Stoker,” Ida teased, “I wouldn't be so stupid as to be your wife!”

  Oats drew nearer. He could tell from Corrigan’s demeanour that he was here on more important business than the theft of a petticoat.

  “You may regret your involvement with him, madam,” began the constable, “when Scotland Yard has finished with you.”

  The air felt more oppressive still. Ida’s fingers came to rest in her lap, her cheroot unfinished in the palm of her hand. Oats raised his eyebrows involuntarily at Corrigan’s words and even Stoker seemed to take a breath. “Scotland Yard?” he rasped from his supine position. The cry of a distant woodcock seemed to mock him as he swung his legs from the log and sat up straight, rubbing feeling back into his shoulder with a delicate hand.

  Corrigan was pleased at the reaction. “Lord Melville is concerned at Fletcher Cousins’ death. He wants to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Local constabulary not up to the job?” Stoker shared a look with his wife. Ida snorted with derision.

  Corrigan resented the insinuation all the more because he knew Stoker was right. Drawing himself up to his full height, he determined to look more officious than ever. “Our resources are limited,” he blustered.

  “I thought Cousins had hanged himself.” Oats was standing stock still beside the constable, keen to understand the situation.

  “So it was believed,” said Corrigan slyly. “But there are many features of interest.” The constable leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “Not least the fact that he was hanged not a hundred yards from your camp.” The constable had raised a pale hand to point into the trees beyond the quarry. Gummer’s Pond, and the tree where Fletcher Cousins had been found hanged, lay just beyond the lip of the hill.

  “A man may go about these woods unnoticed for hours,” Stoker shrugged.

  “Ay,” agreed Corrigan. “But your men are all over them. They know every sound and call.” He looked pointedly at the woman before him. “They know the best places to poach.” Ida Stoker lifted a nonchalant eyebrow at the accusation. “You can’t tell me a man could yomp up this hill with a length of rope and hang himself from a tree without you knowing.” Corrigan stood with his hands on his hips.

  “We must have been sleeping,” Stoker shrugged, breezily.

  “I know you set a watch at night,” Corrigan spat back. “He would have heard or seen.”

  “I see what is happening here.” Ida stood, arranging her skirts irritably about her. “The villagers suspect us, just as they always do. Something goes missing, it must be the gypsies,” she threw her arms wide. “There’s poaching in the woods, it must be the gypsies. A man hangs himself from a tree,” she stood nose to nose with Corrigan, her nostrils flaring, “perhaps it was murder, and perhaps it was the gypsies.” With that, she turned abruptly away, kicking a stray log into the fire as she passed.

  “Sounds dangerously close to a confession to me,” Corrigan chuckled after her.

  “If you have anything to say, say it.” Stoker held Corrigan’s gaze.

  “I have nothing to say,” said Corrigan with a smile. “Except that you should watch your step. There’s many in the village who would be happy to see you moved on for good.” The policeman leaned in again, the better to make his point. “Whatever the reason.”

  “Is that a threat, Constable Corrigan?” Stoker’s eyes blazed as he reached into his pocket for a liquorice root.

  “You’d be surprised how easy it is to make things stick, Stoker. And you’d be surprised how quick word spreads in these parts.” Corrigan spread his arms wide. “Where would you be if the work dried up?”

  Stoker stood to object, but he was caught off guard as Corrigan raised a hand. Pushing hard against Stoker’s chest, the constable pushed the man back to the dusty ground. “Just watch your step, Stoker,” Corrigan hissed, “Or you and your sort will feel the heat.” He cast a disdainful eye around the camp. Several men, roused by the commotion, stood at the doors to their makeshift tents. Seeing two of them brandish their tools with menace, Stoker raised a hand to calm them.

  “If you’ve said all you came to say,” he said, meeting Corrigan’s gaze as he rose to his feet, “I would urge you to leave.” Brushing the dust from his trousers, he stripped a little bark from the liquorice with his teeth and spat it at Corrigan’s feet. “I am sure the whole of Larton will sleep easier in their beds knowing Constable Corrigan’s on their side.” Stoker chewed slowly on his liquorice root as Corrigan looked him up and down.

  “Don’t get too comfortable in yours,” the constable breathed. Placing his hat back on his head, he cast his eyes at Oats and, with a nod, signalled that the interview was at an end. Oats could barely meet Stoker’s eye as the two men turned away from the clearing, tramping nettles beneath their boots as they fought their way through the foliage back to the village beneath the hill. Jared Stoker watched them go with narrowing eyes. As they moved through the trees and beyond his sight, he motioned to his companions that the altercation was over and made his way to the fire. Bending to retrieve the brace of rabbits from the ground, he took a knife from his pocket. He flung them onto the stump of a tree near to the quarry wall. Breathing heavily now, he grit his teeth with a snarl and began to tear at the rabbits” skin with such ferocity that flecks of crimson spattered against the white of the chalk.

  IV

  Terminus

  The first thing Bowman noticed was the horizon. From where he stood on the platform at Larton Station, he could turn a circle and trace it with his eyes, taut and sharp against the summer sky. Even in the heat he instinctively pulled his jacket tighter about him, missing already the taller buildings and monuments of the capital.

  “Not a very popular spot, eh, sir?”

  Graves was right. The two detectives were the only passengers to have alighted from the Larton Donkey. The great engine had heaved itself away from the platform with a complaining hiss, leaving the men to contemplate their predicament in near silence. Far from being a hotbed of murder and violence, mused Bowman, it didn’t seem very much had happened here for quite some time. A line of red brick cottages stood tumbledown and forlorn beside the track, their patchy gardens overgrown with brambles and weeds. Bowman noticed barely any of them had glass panes to their windows. The door to one stood torn from its hinges, merely leaning against the jamb. Behind it, Bowman thought he caught sight of an old, toothless woman, peering from a ramshackle porch. He was about to call out to her to ask for directions to Trevitt’s farm, when he noticed a figure striding along the platform towards them. He was a thin, severe looking man in the black livery of a driver. It was clear from his demeanour that he despised being made to wear his heavy woollen coat on such a day and, as he stopped before Sergeant Graves, the inspector saw him sweep his hat from his head with some relief.

  “Inspector Bowman?” the man enquired with none of the customary warmth of a greeting. His voice was thick and fulsome, with the cadence of an accent approaching that of the West Country.

  The sergeant laughed and pointed to his fellow detective. “A case of mistaken identity, I’m afraid,” he chuckled. “Though I’ll make an inspector yet.” Graves’ blue eyes shone with mischief and, not for the first time, Bowman envied him his alacrity of spirit.

  The man’s face fell as he turned to the shadow of a man before him and it was clear from his expression that, for a moment, he doubted Graves’ word. Faltering slightly, he gave a curt nod to cover his discomfort before continuing. “I am to take you to Larton Manor, there to meet with Lord Melville.”

  “Not to the orchard?” Bowman’s eyebrows rose at the news.

  “Lord Melville thinks there is little to be gained there for now.”

  Graves raised his eyebrows as he turned to the inspector. “Ours is not to reason why,” he said with a shrug.

  Taking the two men’s cases, the driver led them both past the dilapidated ticket office to a dus
ty yard beyond. There stood the grandest carriage the inspector had seen for some time. It seemed to gleam with pride, its glossy, black paintwork shining in the sun. The wooden trim had been polished almost zealously so the whole contraption looked as though it had just been delivered, fresh from the workshop. As the driver heaved the cases aboard, he took a cloth from his pocket to wipe the dust from the wheels. Two smart, black horses stood, impatient in their harnesses.

  “It seems we have something of a welcome after all.” Bowman turned to follow Graves’ gaze. Above the entrance to the ticket office, he saw a line of bunting hanging limp from the wooden soffit above the door.

  “That’ll be for tomorrow’s regatta,” the driver explained wearily. “It passes for entertainment in these parts.”

  Bowman looked around him. Apart from the driver and the shady figure behind the broken door, he had yet to see another soul.

  “There will be people enough,” the driver continued, reading Bowman’s expression. “It’s about the only day Larton comes together. Ten to one it’ll end in a fight on the causeway.” The man was heaving himself up onto his perch. “It always does.” He sat stock still at the reins, the pretence at conversation clearly over.

  Bowman shared a look with Graves, who was plainly enjoying every moment. Rubbing his hands together, the young sergeant sprang to open the carriage door and, snapping to attention, he raised his hand in a stiff salute. “His Lordship awaits,” he grinned, and Bowman couldn't help but smile in return.

  Tom Cousins skulked by the river in his favourite spot along the causeway. Where the road rose over the little tributary, the young lad had made a den for himself. There, beneath the bridge, he had tramped down the nettles and slung a blanket over a tree root that rose from the mud. Weighting each side down with stones from the riverbed, he had fashioned himself a tent from which he could observe the heron and the stickleback and keep a watch on those who passed over the bridge to the village.