The Body in the Trees

by Richard James

  “You’ll kow tow to his will then, will you?” Trevitt seethed. “You’ll get few friends through bowin” and scrapin” to his lordship.”

  “I am not here to make friends, Mr Trevitt,” Bowman rejoindered, “But rather to investigate a man’s death.”

  From the look that Trevitt shot him from beneath his beetle brows, Bowman saw that that was just as well.

  Following Trevitt’s outburst, dinner was an awkward affair. Barely a word was spoken as Bowman was ushered into the dilapidated dining room to be served a meal of boiled potatoes and rabbit. The inspector had been surprised to see that Trevitt’s wife had no intention to join them, but rather kept herself to the kitchen and the rooms to the back of the house. Once or twice throughout the meal, Bowman was certain he could hear her crying. As the poor woman’s sobs filtered through the walls, Trevitt brazenly held Bowman’s gaze, almost daring him to comment upon it. He had thought better of it, concentrating instead on downing his meal as quickly as possible, the sooner to be away and back to The King’s Head. He had been struck by Trevitt’s belligerence in the parlour. Now the farmer sat at the dining table, gravy dripping from his chin.

  “What do you know of the other men who took their life?” Bowman dared to ask.

  Trevitt paused at his meal, a forkful of food halfway between plate and mouth. He seemed to consider whether the question was worthy of response. “I knew old Sharples by sight,” he said at last. “He had only lately come to the village.

  “The old soldier?” Bowman remembered the papers having made mention of him having shot himself.

  Trevitt nodded, resuming his meal. “He was a Trooper in the Royal Horse Guards.” He looked, mused Bowman, like some gruff beast chewing the cud. It was quite enough to put the inspector off his meal. “He had one of the almshouses by St. Luke’s in the Dean.” Trevitt slapped at his lips with his tongue. “You see, inspector, we even have our own churches so we don’t have to mix.”

  “Why might he have shot himself?”

  Trevitt paused again, unblinking. “They say a man’s wits may retreat in response to some dreadful event.” Bowman swallowed. Trevitt regarded the inspector carefully. Was he expecting a response? “He was never the same after his time in the army,” he continued at last. ‘saw some things, no doubt.”

  With that, Trevitt fell silent for the remainder of the meal. Bowman wondered at the man’s remarks. Did Trevitt know of his history? Had Bowman left London only to have his reputation travel with him? He thought back to the nudges and glances he had seen from the men on the bridge. Perhaps there was more to it than a suspicion of strangers. As Trevitt cleared his plate, Bowman chose the moment to stand and push his chair back from the table.

  “You must excuse me, Mr Trevitt. You have been most helpful. Will you give my thanks to Mrs Trevitt for an excellent meal?” He attempted a smile.

  “That I will,” said the farmer as he rested his hands upon his belly. “When I see her.” Within moments, he was asleep, leaving Bowman to make his way from the farmer’s cottage alone.

  IX

  Initiation

  Prescott knelt before the table in the Chamber of Reflection, eager to take the First Degree. He had been flattered when approached to take his place among the Fraternity. He had, of course, heard rumours of the Larton Lodge but had never truly believed in such a thing. He had never achieved much in his life. Being the driver to Lord Melville was not a particularly high achievement for one his age but, in Larton, the prospect of advancement was slim. Cooper, the groom, was seemingly determined to stay in post forever, leaving little room for Prescott to progress. Here, amongst the Brotherhood, he felt he stood a chance. Progression through the Degrees had offered him a challenge. Perhaps here he would be granted the respect he felt was denied him in the village. Though he had served Lord Melville for much of his adult life, Prescott had never felt he had received the recognition he deserved. He was frequently ridiculed and often ignored. The invitation to join the Lodge would change all that, he was certain. Perhaps he would even rise through the ranks to sit in the east as Grand Master.

  The sound of a discordant chanting from the Temple served as a reminder to turn his mind to higher things. He had been led blindfold to the Chamber of Reflection by William Oats. Only when the curtain had been drawn behind him had the Hoodwink been untied. Prescott had fought to hide his disappointment as he looked about him. Save for the odd shape of the room and the table of strange objects that stood before him, there was little to inspire him. He recognised the collection of ephemera arranged on the tablecloth. In the literature he had been given to prepare for the ceremony, he had read of the skull and the hourglass and of their meaning in the Ritual. They were set before him as a reminder of his own mortality and the futility of all things. The bread and water symbolised the simplicity of an initiate’s life. However, he struggled to remember the meaning behind the letters of salt on the tablecloth. “V.I.T.R.I.O.L.”

  Prescott whispered under his breath as Oats fussed around him, tying a leather apron about his waist. “Visita Interiora Terrae,” he began, ‘rectificandoque…” Here he stopped, unable to recall the next few words. “Visita Interiora Terrae,” he began again, then paused. He could not for the life of him remember the rest.

  The apron tied, Prescott felt a gentle pressure on his shoulder. Oats was pushing him down to kneel before the table. His knees cracking in complaint, Prescott relented. The tiled floor was cold and hard, and he hoped he would not have to stay there long.

  Oats bowed long and low before the table then turned wordlessly to exit through the curtain into the Temple beyond. He was careful to draw it smartly back behind him so that Prescott was denied even the briefest glimpse of what lay beyond. The driver puffed out his cheeks and turned back to the table. He was now required to spend some time in solemn contemplation of the Craft. As the blood drained from his legs, however, the only thing he could solemnly contemplate was the state of his knees. Forcing his mind to higher things, he returned again to the phrase that had eluded him.

  “Visita Interiora Terrae,” he muttered beneath his breath. What was it? He struggled to remember the meaning in hopes that it would prompt his mind to recall the Latin. “Visit the interior of the earth”, he intoned to himself, “And, purifying it, you will find the hidden stone.” It was an elaborate way of saying, look within yourself for the truth. Too elaborate, Prescott thought to himself, rolling his eyes as he struggled with the translation. This time he approached it at speed, as if sheer momentum would carry him to the end of the sentence.

  “Visita Interiora Terrae,” he repeated, ‘rectificandoque, Invenies Occultum Lapidem.” That was it. He raised his hands to rub at his face in relief, just as Oats returned to the room to collect him. Finding Prescott with his hands raised before him, he confused the gesture with that of prayerful introspection, and smiled at his acolyte’s piety.

  Oats had been appointed Prescott’s mentor and it was apparent he took his duties seriously. With a sombre air, he reached across to the table and pinched some salt between a forefinger and thumb. Letting it go over each shoulder, he muttered something under his breath before helping Prescott to his feet. The driver was grateful for the opportunity to stretch his legs, although he was cautioned by a look not to say a word. He knew he must not speak unprompted until the ceremony was over and so he nodded in understanding as Oats led him to the curtain.

  Prescott’s heart beat just a little bit faster. Here he stood, a lowly driver, on the threshold of a sacred and secret knowledge. At last, perhaps, all things would be known to him and he would have a place in the world, or at least in Larton which amounted to much the same thing.

  After a dramatic pause, Oats drew back the curtain with a flourish and Prescott saw the Temple before him. It was lit by at least a hundred flickering candles of differing sizes. They stood on every surface and sill, lending a warm glow to proceedings. An altar table lay beyond. Around the room, the Officers of the Lodge stood, int
oning their psalms with lusty voices. Prescott recognised many of them from the village. The butcher, the landlord of The Kings Head and the headmaster of Larton School were among them, though he was forbidden to show them any signs of acknowledgment.

  Treading exactly in Oats’ footsteps as he had been tutored, Prescott made his way into the temple. The air was still and damp in the windowless room with no hint of a draught. Prescott remembered the hard, stone steps he had been led down while in his Hoodwink and guessed he was underground. Having been collected and blindfolded from a pre-arranged location in the woods around Larton, he couldn”t even be sure which part of the village he was in. The twelve Officers were stood in a circle around the room, chanting in unison. Ornate wooden chairs had been placed in the corners of the room, set back from the Temple in alcoves. All but one of them was occupied. Prescott racked his brains to remember those who were seated. The Junior Warden was sat in the south, he remembered, and the Senior Warden in the west. Directly opposite, in the direction of the rising sun, the Grand Master sat in the east. All their faces were obscured in the shadow of the alcoves. The chair in the north corner was empty, as Prescott knew it always was, although the symbolism eluded him for now. He reprimanded himself and made a mental note to get back to his studies just as soon as time allowed.

  As the volume of the chanting increased, Oats turned to Prescott with his palm open before him. With a nod of his head, Prescott turned up the hem of his apron as was expected. Turning from him, Oats then started on his course around the room, Prescott following slavishly in his footsteps. Beginning in the east towards the west by way of the south, they circled the room about the altar. The very act of walking the circle about the Temple served to link him to each and every man who had, since the dawn of recorded time, sought communion with the Great Architect. Prescott allowed himself to feel humbled by the thought.

  Finally, they came to a stop and Oats took his position with the Officers. Prescott judged himself in the northeast corner of the room, as scripture dictated. Just as the first stone of the Jerusalem Temple was historically laid at the northeast corner, so Prescott was placed to signify the beginning of a true and correct foundation.

  As the chanting fell away, a silence descended. Prescott flicked his eyes around the room. Suddenly, he heard the rapping of wood on wood. The Grand Master had risen, banging the gavel on the arm of his chair. It was a signal that those seated in the room should rise. Prescott strained to see into the gloom, but the shadow defeated him and the Grand Master remained unseen.

  “Circumambulation teaches us that no single man is alone,” the Master intoned with a sonorous voice, “But that, with a true and trusted friend in whom he can confide, he can always, unfailingly, find his way home. We live and walk by faith.”

  The gathered Officers around the room took up the final phrase in response. “We live and walk by faith,” they chanted, as one.

  Each of the Wardens, now standing before their chairs, pointed wordlessly before the altar table in a sign that Prescott should advance there. He made his way slowly to the altar and prostrated himself. Spreading his arms to make the sign of the cross, he felt his cheek pressing against the cold black mosaic tiles on the floor.

  The Junior Warden opened his mouth to speak. “Have you come to the Lodge of your own free will?”

  “I have,” Prescott replied, conscious that his neck was held at an awkward angle.

  “The Lodge represents the world,” said the Senior Warden from his place in the west. “Are you sure of your place in it?”

  “I am,” Prescott squeaked.

  Finally, the Grand Master himself completed the verse. “Where does the square lie?”

  “On top of the compass.” Prescott blinked the dust from his eyes.

  “In life, as in the Lodge,” the Grand Master continued from the shadows, “We must prostrate ourselves in humble submission, trust our Guide, learn His ways, follow Him and fear no danger.”

  The gathered Officers chanted in their sombre chorus. “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!”

  The Junior Warden answered them, his voice quivering with emotion. “It is like the precious ointment upon the head, that ran down upon the beard, even Aaron's beard: that went down to the skirts of his garments.”

  Now the Senior Warden played his part. “It was the dew of Hermon, and as the dew that descended upon the mountains of Zion: for there the Lord commanded the blessing.” Daring to lift his eyes to the assembled throng, Prescott saw his mentor, William Oats, standing with a look of pride upon his face. His thoughts were interrupted by the Grand Master, his words echoing portentously around the Temple as if they were the Word of God Himself.

  “By letters four and science five, this G aright doth stand, in due Art and Proportion.” Prescott saw the Grand Master point with an outstretched arm to the altar table. There stood an open copy of the Holy Bible and a goblet engraved with the single letter, G. “By the Scriptures, Square and Compass, you have your answer, friend.”

  As the Officers again took up their chanting, Prescott rose from his prone position. Cursing his stiff knees under his breath, he advanced upon the table to drink from the goblet. The wine was tart and unpleasant to the taste. Thankfully, only a sip was required before Prescott was permitted to turn where he stood and take his first steps as an Entered Apprentice Of The First Degree.

  X

  Changing Tack

  Inspector Bowman was at a loss. As he walked down the track from Trevitt’s farm, he had to admit to himself that he was no further along in his investigation into Fletcher Cousins’ death. There seemed to be no indication at all that it was anything other than self-murder. He had seen for himself how easy it would have been for Cousins to loop the rope around the limb of the tree, stand upon a stump of wood then kick it away once it was secure around his neck. As he had made his way through the farm on his way out, he had even seen coils of rope similar to the fragment left in the tree. Certainly there was no love lost between Trevitt and his gang master but, as far as Bowman could see, there was no motive for murder. He could only hope that Graves’ interview with Cousins’ widow would throw some light where now there was only darkness.

  Squinting into the low sun, Bowman marvelled that there could still be such heat in the day at so late an hour. He could feel the baked ground beneath him radiating warmth through the soles of his shoes. As he left the track from Trevitt’s farm to Larton Dean, Bowman turned his feet to St Luke’s Church.Stopping for a moment beneath the oak tree near the pond, Bowman placed a hand upon the ancient bark. There was something about its resolute solidity that gave him pause. If he stood there long enough, he fancied, he might well feel it breathe. Judging from its enormous size, the great oak might have stood for five hundred years and, for all he knew, might live a hundred more. The village of Larton, and perhaps the whole of humanity, might rise and fall within its lifetime, yet still the oak would stand, implacable and knowing.

  The sun was dropping below the tree as Bowman approached the church, and much of the road was finally in shade. St Luke’s was a pretty building, perfectly in keeping with the neat lawns and trim hedgerows of the houses to either side. Its brick and flint walls were well maintained so as to be free from the ivy that Bowman could see had taken a hold of the tombs and gravestones around it. Passing by the thatched lychgate that was adorned with intricate carvings of holy figures and sacred text, Bowman followed a gravel drive that led to the back of the church. There, nestling against the perimeter wall, he saw a line of almshouses. There were ten in all, separated from the track by a strip of manicured lawn. Each had its own path leading to a low front door set beneath a stone lintel. Bowman noticed that each lintel bore a word, carved in an ornate script by an expert mason. Standing back from the houses so that each front door was within his view, he saw that each word, when read one after the other from left to right, spelled out a complete inscription;

  “HE - THAT - G
IVETH - TO - THE - POOR - LENDETH - TO - THE - LORD.”

  Provided and maintained by charitable trusts, almshouses were typically gifted for the use of those in a community who were the most vulnerable. Often they had been of a particular employment or station. Knowing that Trooper Sharples had been resident here, Bowman guessed they were primarily for the use of old soldiers. Often, they returned from the wars with nothing but the clothes they wore. Many found it difficult to find work or to adapt to civilian life after military service. Others still had injuries that precluded them from living a full and useful life. Unable to find their place in society, they often had no option but to throw themselves upon the mercy of local charities and trusts for support. The luckier among them were saved from a life of poverty and given shelter. Trooper Sharples had evidently been one such a man.

  The dwellings before him were simple and yet, thought Bowman, sufficient to allow any man to live a life of comfort. Many of the plain red brick frontages were adorned with blooms. Roses had been trailed over one or two of the doors, and Bowman stood for a while to admire their scent. Two or three of the gardens had been subdivided into plots for the cultivation of vegetables. At the end of the row, Bowman saw an old man leaning over a spade, bending every now and then to shake the earth from a clump of waxy looking potatoes and set them aside upon the grass. As he approached the man, Bowman saw that, rather incongruously for one at work at so lowly a chore, a line of medals was pinned to his chest.

  The old soldier looked up as he felt the inspector draw near.