The Body in the Trees

by Richard James

  ‘did you find anything of use in the woods?” the sergeant asked, gently.

  Bowman stood in silence for a while, gathering his thoughts by the window.

  “I saw a piece of rope tied to a tree,” he sighed, “And Maxwell Trevitt was far from the perfect host. What did you learn from Florrie Cousins?”

  Graves drew his notebook from his pocket and flicked through its pages. “It seems Fletcher was in debt. Trevitt is none too reliable when it comes to paying wages. Seems the final straw came when he promised to pay Cousins a wage only if he got the gypsies to work.” Graves saw Bowman twitch at the window. “They’re refusing to pick the crop unless Trevitt ups their wage.”

  Graves saw the inspector nodding. “Trevitt mentioned to me that there was bad blood between Cousins and the gypsies in the wood.”

  “Florrie Cousins remains convinced that Trevitt drove her husband to hang himself,” the sergeant continued, “Leaving her with two young children to feed.”

  “I am struggling to see how Fletcher Cousins’ death could be explained as anything other than self-murder.”

  “Then I’ll book our ticket home for tomorrow morning, shall I, sir?”

  Bowman turned to see his companion’s eyes twinkling, gently. Graves was indeed a clever man, he mused. With one quip, he had disarmed the inspector.

  “Not quite, Sergeant Graves,” he said with a half-smile.

  Bowman walked to retrieve his suitcase from beneath the washstand and hoisted it onto the bed with some effort. Sliding the catches to the left and right, he carefully slid his clothes to one side as if concealing something of import from his companion, before lifting out a bundle of newspapers. Graves recognised them as the copies of The Berkshire Chronicle he had seen at Larton Manor.

  Bowman carried them to the chest of drawers between the windows, the better to be read in the light.

  “There is a uniting factor to the deaths in Larton, Graves,” Bowman said slowly, leaning against the chest for support. “Take a look.”

  Standing beside him now, Graves peered closer at the reports. “Trooper Sharples,” he summarised, “Found with a gunshot wound to the head following discharge from the Royal Horse Guards. Seems it was his own gun.” He read on, “A verdict of suicide was entered by the coroner.” He slid the newspaper to one side to reveal the next. “Erasmus Finch,” he read, leaning in closer, “Thirty five years old, jumped from the tower at All Saints Church.” He scanned the text. “A verdict of suicide was returned by the coroner.” The sergeant looked up to see Bowman was waiting expectantly at his side.

  “The coroner has been a busy man these last few weeks. Wire his office,” Bowman commanded of his companion, “And have him meet us at Larton Police Station first thing tomorrow.” The inspector stared out the window. There was a drunken altercation in progress in the High Street, much to the delight of a sizable crowd of onlookers. “He and Corrigan might at least be able to spread a little more light on proceedings.”

  “Corrigan, sir?”

  “The constable here at Larton. He investigated Trooper Sharple’s death and, I dare say, the others, too. I would be willing to wager that Constable Corrigan is the local police force.”

  Graves nodded. The Metropolitan Police Force had been established as the first professional police force in the world. Its codes and practices had yet to be fully embraced in the shires.

  There was a pause as Graves mulled the details of the cases over in his mind. Turning back to the newspapers, he began to scan the details once more.

  “There’s something else, sir,” he volunteered, suddenly. Bowman turned to face him at once. He knew the tone in Graves’ voice well enough and had learned over the years to pay good heed to it.

  “What is it, sergeant?”

  “The dates that each of the bodies were found.” Graves was flicking between the pages now, his usually cheery features knotted into an expression of concentration. ‘sharples was found on May the Fourteenth.”

  “He had killed himself just moments before,” Bowman confirmed. Graves shot his superior a questioning look. “I paid a visit to his lodgings on my way back from Trevitt’s farm,” the inspector explained. “The almshouses by the church. And he’d not been in Larton long.”

  Graves nodded, then continued. “Erasmus Finch jumped from the tower at All Saints Church a month later, on the Eleventh of June.”

  Bowman was gnawing at his lower lip. “Exactly four weeks after Sharples,” he said, quietly. “That’s certainly some coincidence for so random an act.”

  “Or the beginning of a pattern,” said Graves, meaningfully.

  Bowman leaned back against the chest of drawers, a hand to his forehead, his chin sunk onto his chest. “And yet Fletcher Cousins hanged himself on this Tuesday past, the Fifth of July.”

  “Both of the other deaths occurred on the same day of the week, sir.” Graves stabbed at the newspapers with a finger. “If there is a pattern, then Cousins isn”t a part of it. And let’s hope it isn”t repeated.”

  “Why?”

  Graves held up the front pages by way of illustration. “Each of the previous two men died on the second Saturday of the month.”

  Bowman fought to clear his head. He would never have wished it known to his companion, but much of his recent life had been a blur. Days had merged, and sometimes weeks. At last, pitifully, he gave in.

  “What is the day, Graves?”

  “It’s Friday, sir.” Bowman looked none the wiser. “If this pattern is to be repeated,” Graves clarified for the inspector’s benefit, “There might well be another Larton man found dead tomorrow, the second Saturday of July.”

  The two men’s eyes widened almost together.

  “The regatta,” they said, as one.

  XII

  Night And Day

  The pillow felt like stone beneath his head. Bowman lay on his bed, the sheets twisted about him damp with sweat. He had faced a difficult choice; keep the windows open and be kept awake by the mayhem in the streets below, or keep them shut and suffer the inordinate heat. He had elected for the latter. With the windows shut against any movement in the air, the room had become even more uncomfortable. At least the light was fading. Creeping from his bed to the washstand by the door, he lit the lamp that stood there. Shaking the flame from the match, he poured a little water from the jug into the cracked china bowl. Hoping to feel refreshed as he splashed it onto his face, he was disappointed to find that even the water was warm. He looked up into the small mirror that hung above the table, his mind transported to another, sparse cell he had once occupied. Then, the air had been biting cold. The memory formed, sharp and clear. It surprised him with its intensity. He could smell the carbolic in the air.

  Bowman dried his face on the hard towel that hung from the washstand and stood before the mirror. His limbs looked scrawny and weak, his shoulders sloped. There was a definite bow to his back. His eyes flicked to his suitcase. Bowman knew that deliverance lay within. He knew a temporary yet sweet oblivion could be his if he chose. He gazed back up at the mirror, willing her to appear.

  Even in death, she had once been so tangible. He had feared her appearances at first but, as they had dwindled, he had missed them. His latest vision had panicked him. How could he not remember her face? He had held it a thousand times, fixed it in his gaze. Now he could not recall so much as the slope of her nose or the dimple in her cheek. How was it, he railed, that he could remember the grinning loon in the asylum, yet not remember her? Burying his face in his hands, Bowman tried to stifle a heavy sob, his shoulders heaving at the effort. Rubbing at his eyes, he stared again into the mirror. Tears streaked his sallow cheeks. He felt numb. He couldn’t even bring himself to feel pity for the man in the glass. He felt nothing. Without her, he was nothing. He was a hollow man.

  Turning almost mechanically to the bed, he bent to lift his suitcase onto the chest of drawers. Slowly, deliberately, he slid the catches and opened the case. Moving the bundle of shirts to o
ne side, he reached for his comfort. He found it, as he knew he would, in the smooth, rounded glass of the bottle. He found it in the golden glow of the candle through the liquid as he held it up to the light. He found it in the blessed release it promised.

  Prescott felt light as air. As he tripped through the empty streets back to Larton Manor, he reflected on how his life might change. No longer for him the drudgery of servitude. In time, he would rise. For now, though, he must hold his thoughts and bide his time. Circumspection must be his watchword. He could do nothing to impugn the Brotherhood. Turning into the drive to the manor and keen to avoid the gatehouse, Prescott sloped round by the large leathery magnolia that sat brooding by the perimeter wall and ducked beneath the drooping branches of an ancient plane tree. From there, he could see a light still burning in the stable block. Cursing that the groom should still be awake, he climbed a lower part of the wall and jumped into the manor grounds. In no fear of discovery, he walked across the lawn to the stables. The groundskeeper’s dogs were left to roam at night, but he knew that if they scented him, they knew him well enough to leave him be.

  Just as Prescott reached the squat, red brick building that housed the stables, he saw a door open onto the yard. Pressing himself up against the wall, he watched as Nokes the gardener strode purposefully from the building. He looked once or twice around him to check that he had not been observed before turning off the main path to the cottage provided for him in the grounds. Waiting a moment to be certain he had gone, Prescott walked carefully on.

  Pushing at the door, he slipped into the stables. The stable boys were in their bunks, fully clothed as usual. Prescott knew they’d be up a full two hours earlier than him and so was surprised to see them playing jacks by the light of the moon on an old pallet placed between them.

  “Boys,” he called from the end of the stalls, “Did you see Nokes come in here?”

  “No,” replied one of the lads sleepily. “I was too busy beating Adlam.” His opponent punched him playfully in the shoulder, but still there was sufficient force to send the boy reeling back from his bunk into a pile of hay. The commotion disturbed the horses in the stalls nearest to them, with one particularly handsome gelding neighing and shaking his head with the surprise.

  “Alright, Chester,” moaned Adlam. “Keep yer fists to yerself.”

  Prescott smiled to himself and reached out to stroke Magnus, his favourite of his master’s horses. Standing seventeen hands to his withers, he had a pleasant disposition, without so much as a hint of the contrary about him. The driver looked around him, deep in thought. What had Nokes been up to? Magnus was nuzzling his hand. “Don’t be late now boys,” Prescott said at last, wiping his fingers on his shirt tails. “I don’t want you keeping me up with your brawls.”

  The lads nodded their assent as they settled back to their game, with Adlam attempting a smart salute at Prescott’s retreating back.

  He could hear the sound already as he climbed the stairs to the loft above. The one reason he resented sharing quarters with the groom, was that he snored something dreadful. As he alighted the last step into the loft, the throaty, fleshy sound of Cooper’s snore became louder still.

  A single lamp burned on the table by the window, surrounded by the detritus of an evening meal and several empty beer bottles. The room was large enough for the two of them but had no dividing walls. Consequently, privacy was at a premium. Sheets and blankets had been slung up between various areas of the room, most notably between the two beds in the corner. They were comfortable enough but, with nothing more than a length of material hanging between them, very little was sacred.

  Prescott leaned against the wall to kick off his boots, refraining from throwing one of them at Cooper to rouse him from his sleep. Instead, he swore beneath his breath as he stripped to his underclothes in preparation for bed. He was due to help with preparations for the next day’s regatta, so wished to be up early to complete his errands first. With the walls rattling with Cooper’s snoring, a good night’s sleep seemed an impossible prospect. Just as Prescott bent to extinguish the lamp on the table, he noticed an envelope propped up against it. The design on the front caused Prescott to catch his breath. It was a geometric design, familiar from his recent studies and the ceremony in which he’d just played a leading role. A square and compass with a sheaf of corn between them.

  His heart racing in his chest, Prescott grabbed both the envelope and lamp and crept across the room to the farthest wall, thankful he had not sought to rouse Cooper after all. Lowering himself quietly on the sill to the window, Prescott opened the envelope with care. Nokes must have left the missive without waking Cooper. He was at once concerned that a man could enter his quarters at night with such ease, but then reasoned that the estate’s gardener would hardly arouse suspicion if spotted. Prescott took gulps of air to steady his nerves. Reaching inside the envelope, his fingers closed around a single piece of stiff card. As he pulled it into the light, he narrowed his eyes to read the instructions printed there. The words digested, Prescott replaced the card in its envelope and carried it back to the table with the lamp, careful not to disturb the snoring groom. Holding the envelope to the flame, he watched it catch light before dropping it gently onto a plate to gutter and fade. Soon, all that was left was a pile of ash, ready to be discarded with the last of Cooper’s dinner. Prescott nodded to himself, slowly. If this was to be his first test, he must not be found wanting.

  For the second time in a week, Sergeant Graves had found a locked door between himself and his superior. After knocking furiously for several minutes, he had admitted defeat and gone in search of Maude to enlist her help. Seduced at once by the look of concern on the sergeant’s face, Maude had acquiesced, accompanying him back upstairs with a spare key to Bowman’s room.

  “Sir!” Graves called as Maude turned the key in the lock. “Sir, it’s Graves!” Gaining entry at last, he stepped carefully inside, unsure of what he might find. The room was still in darkness, the curtains drawn. The air was ripe with the unmistakable tang of alcohol and sweat. Walking to the window, he pulled open the curtains and opened the casement to let in some air. Looking about him, he saw the room was in disarray. The newspapers he had read the night before were scattered about the floor along with several shirts and effects from Bowman’s suitcase. An empty bottle with no label lay on the hearth by the fireplace. Graves winced as he held it up to smell what dregs were left in the bottom. Madeira. Turning slowly from the hearth, he looked in sadness at the crumpled form lying sprawled on the bed. Bowman lay in a twist of wet sheets, his head buried beneath a pillow. Casting a warning glance at Maude standing wide eyed by the door, Graves advanced to shake the inspector carefully by the shoulder.

  “Sir?” he soothed, trying to keep his voice steady.

  He was answered with a low, guttural grunt and Bowman tried to swing a heavy leg from the bed.

  “Sir, it’s Graves.” The young sergeant’s face was creased with concern. “We’re due at the police station.”

  Bowman struggled to sit up. Throwing the pillow to the floor, he grabbed at Graves’ arm for support. He rubbed at his aching eyes as he struggled to focus on his companion. His head was pounding, his mouth so dry he could barely speak.

  “Police station?” he rasped.

  “Maude,” Graves turned, suddenly galvanised. “Get some hot water in that jug, will you? And not a word of this to anyone, do you understand?”

  Maude nodded, darting to the washstand to collect the jug. Before she left the room she paused in the doorway, seemingly unable to tear her eyes from the wretched figure on the bed.

  “Don’t worry,” Graves soothed. “He’ll be alright.” The inspector was staring about him, as if trying to get his bearings. Maude smiled weakly then closed the door behind her with a soft click.

  “Come on, sir, we need to get you up.”

  Bowman grunted again as Graves swung his legs from the bed.

  “Maude has gone for hot water. You must g
et dressed and ready.” Reaching down, Graves grabbed Bowman by the hands and pulled him upright. He swayed for a moment where he stood, blinking furiously as if to clear an image from his eyes. With that, he broke free of the sergeant’s grasp, ran for the chipped ceramic bowl on the washstand and relieved his stomach of the burden of drink he had consumed the night before.

  Graves sat at a table, staring idly through the window to the street beyond. He had watched as the shopkeepers had arrived to unlock their stores, sluice their doorways with water and pull down their awnings. A man with a cart had swept the road with something approaching a mild enthusiasm, leaning on his broom to stand and stare whenever the fancy took him. The chemist stood at his door, arms crossed, a pipe clamped between his teeth. Next door, a baker carried baskets of freshly baked bread to display in his window, eager for a good day’s revenue for the results of his early morning labours. A young lad in a butcher’s apron and jaunty hat sauntered past with a barrow. It groaned under the weight of several cuts of meat, each wrapped in paper and tied with string. Every now and then, a wheel would snag in a rut on the road and the boy would put his weight to the handle to shift it. For all the bustle of activity in the street outside, Graves was puzzled to see that no one man turned to acknowledge another. Rather, they regarded one another with suspicious eyes and sideways glances.

  Alerted to his approach by a creek on the stair, Graves turned to see Inspector Bowman standing by the bannister, his eyes cast down to the floor. He looked for all the world, thought Graves, like a penitent child. His hands ran restlessly up and down his sides, and he could barely find the strength to meet the sergeant’s gaze. Freshly shaved, an unsteady grip on the razor had left him with several cuts and nicks to the skin, most noticeably on his neck where specks of blood were apparent upon his collar. His hair had been wetted with a comb to lay flat upon his head, his moustache trimmed and tamed with a little wax. He was trying to present as normal a countenance to the world as possible. The tragedy was, Graves noted, that he was quite plainly failing in that intent.