The Body in the Trees

by Richard James

  “I am sorry, Graves,” Bowman whispered.

  Graves nodded, gesturing that the inspector should join him at his table. Bowman cut a brittle figure as he shuffled across the room, his shoes scuffing on the floor. Every movement seemed to require a Herculean effort. Sliding a chair from beneath the table, Bowman grit his teeth against the noise as its legs rasped along the wooden floor. If the situation was not so dire and the effect upon Bowman’s reputation so damaging, Graves had no doubt he would have found the whole situation most comical. As it was, he sat with his arms folded across his chest, a look of stern disapproval playing upon his usually cheery face.

  “I am at a loss, sir,” he said as Bowman settled into his chair.

  “I know.”

  “You have placed me in a most invidious position.”

  Bowman nodded painfully. “You must do what you must,” he said. An uneasy silence passed between them. Bowman winced in irritation as a fly banged lazily against the window.

  “I do not believe it is for me to do anything,” Graves said at last. “It is for you to act.”

  Bowman winced. That seemed unfair. “What would you have me do?” His voice rose as he spoke, and Graves noticed a vein standing out upon his forehead. “Scuttle back to Scotland Yard in abject failure?” He looked sheepishly about him, suddenly aware they might be overheard. “Confess to the commissioner that the case was beyond me?” Bowman looked around for signs that anyone was listening.

  “I do not think the case is beyond you,” Graves said, pointedly. “Not when you have your wits about you.”

  Bowman thought long and hard. “I am sorry, Graves,” he conceded at last. “I shall endeavour to comport myself in a more seemly fashion.” It was clear from the sergeant’s expression that he was doubtful. “What more can I do?” Bowman spread his arms wide.

  “Suit the action to the word, sir,” Graves said. “We owe it to Fletcher Cousins and the others.” He let the words sink in before clapping the inspector on the shoulder. It seemed there was a chasm of silence between them. When Bowman spoke at last, it was with such a low whisper that Graves could barely hear him.

  “Do you know when I killed my wife?”

  Graves sat forwards, staring into Bowman’s troubled eyes. “Of course, sir,” he began, carefully. “I was there.”

  “No,” Bowman interrupted, shaking his head. “Not in Hanbury Street. I killed my wife the moment I became a detective.” He met the sergeant’s gaze.

  “I don’t understand.” Graves whispered, puzzled.

  “If I had not joined the Metropolitan Police, I should never have been on Hanbury Street that day.”

  Sensing his distress, Graves attempted to calm his companion. “She might still have volunteered at the Women’s Refuge,” he soothed. “She might still have been there.”

  The inspector was grateful for the gesture, but even he could see his sergeant’s heart wasn’t it.

  “Yes, Graves,” Bowman lowered his eyes to the table as he explained. “But I would not have fired that shot.”

  Graves was speechless.

  “That one single moment, my joining the Yard, led to her death at my hands.” He looked up again, pleading. “What man could live with that?”

  XIII

  Confrontations

  Lord Melville was in his element. As he marshalled the estate workers across the causeway from Larton Manor, he set his granite face to the low morning sun and leaned on his cane for support. His straw boater felt tighter than last year and he feared he could not bear to wear it all day, but he was pleased that he had, at least, managed to squeeze into his white cotton trousers. He had worn his favourite striped braces more for effect than for any practical purpose, matching, as they did, the necktie he had knotted around his collar. Pleased with the morning’s work so far, he gazed across the road to the open land that stretched down to the river. Already he could see the division in progress. Those from the Rise kept themselves to the left of the field as it sloped down to the Thames, those from the Village busied themselves on the right. Occasional glances were thrown between them and even the odd shout but, aside from that, no communication was entered into. After lunch, they would be joined by the residents of the Dean, certain that the day’s proceedings were solely for their benefit. A line of marquees had sprung up along the riverbank, and Lord Melville guided his men towards them with their trestle tables. Finally came the estate skiff. Sleek, smooth and polished to a shine, it took six men to carry it. With the tributary from the boathouse so depleted of water, Melville had made the decision to have Marigold carried across the grounds to the river, her oars laid carefully along the length of her hull. All being well, this year would mark the third in succession that the Larton Estate had won the race. From his vantage point on the causeway, he could see several carts and drays unloading their wares. Workers and stallholders milled about, sizing up the competition and adjusting their prices accordingly. The horses that were not employed to drag or carry stood munching lazily at the grass. Seeing the last of the stragglers across the road, Melville followed his boat to the riverside, acknowledging with pride the appreciative looks of the villagers. Melville was used to the doffing of caps and expected deference. He was rarely disappointed. Conversations ceased as he passed by and those involved would tug at their forelocks in greeting.

  “Good morning, Lord Melville,” offered a smart young man in starched collar and tie. “I see Marigold’s back for more.”

  Melville nodded, graciously. “And I will be back for more of your excellent beer, Mr Cribbins.”

  Cribbins bent to lift a large keg from a nearby dray to his trestle table. It joined a line of others, all lying on their sides and waiting to be drained by appreciative customers. “I’ll be sure to save your favourite draft,” he replied, obsequiously.

  Melville nodded condescendingly and moved on, twirling his cane in his hand as he walked.

  “Here, Lord Melville?”

  Melville looked up to see his men standing by the river. A line of little craft had been laid on the bank, each tilted on the grass at an ungainly angle.

  “Set her down at the end of the row,” he commanded, striding towards them in his eagerness to view the competition. He was pleased to see it was no competition at all. Five other boats had been arranged by the water’s edge, some in a better state of repair than others. Melville allowed himself a smile as he appraised his rivals with an expert eye. Many had broken or missing rowlocks. One displayed small nail holes where the trim had come away. He was certain two of them would sink.

  Satisfied that he was certain of victory yet again, Melville turned to see Maxwell Trevitt shouldering a large basket to a rickety table.

  “So you've got the cherries in?” he asked as Trevitt placed the basket before him.

  “Such as I can, Lord Melville,” he seethed. “I was up at the crack of dawn with just the wife for company. We picked as many as we could. Another day and they’ll go over.”

  Melville leaned in on his cane. He could tell Trevitt was maintaining his demeanour with some considerable effort. “Have you still not resolved your differences?”

  “They will not budge,” Trevitt seethed, puffing out his great barrel chest in indignation. “And I will not pay a penny more for their services.” He looked around him, careful not to be overheard. “Reckon they’ve got it coming to them, anyhow.”

  Melville raised his eyebrows. “The gypsies?”

  “Had Scotland Yard at my door last night,” the farmer continued, his voice low. “I reckon he’s onto them.”

  “With regard to what?”

  “Cousins’ death. I told the inspector there was bad blood between ’em. And how everyone in Larton knows you can't trust ’em. Reckon he swallowed it good and proper.”

  Melville’s face was a mask, inscrutable. “Has he found any evidence to implicate them?”

  Trevitt’s eyes opened wide. “Who cares for evidence?” he scoffed. “There’s not a man in Larton who
wouldn’t be happy to see the gypsies gone and Jared Stoker hanged.” He cleared his throat noisily and spat onto the grass. “Beggin’ your pardon,” he added.

  “Then who would pick your cherries, Maxwell Trevitt?”

  “We’re too late for this year, anyhow,” Trevitt ran a chubby hand across his face then gestured to the meagre baskets before him. “I shall make do and mend for now.” He cast his eyes around the field. He knew that, in order to survive, he would have to repair his reputation in the village. With the gypsies gone, he would need a new workforce. He would, in short, have to swallow his pride.

  “Well,” sighed Melville, “Larton is not known for its neighbourliness. I wish you well in your recruiting.” Melville was sincere in his wish. If Trevitt could not send his harvest to market, then he would struggle to pay his rent to Larton Manor. Melville had big plans for the grounds this year and could not countenance a drop in revenue.

  Trevitt dipped his head in a pretence of deference, before turning his attention to retrieving another basket from his hand cart.

  All around, the preparations were in full swing. A great marquee was raised in position at the centre of the field, its canvas sides swinging gently in the warm morning breeze. The moment it was secured, a motley collection of villagers arrived, each with a chair and a case. In unison, they snapped them open to reveal a variety of musical instruments. An elderly man in a jaunty cravat cleaned his battered trombone with pride as the strains of a violin rose into the air. To the east side of the field, a line of shies and stands was marked out with string and wooden posts. Here, there would be games for the children. A small man swamped in a pair of dungarees was preparing the ground for hooplah and skittles. Lord Melville recognised him as the blacksmith and sauntered over to speak with him, his cane sweeping aside drifts of freshly cut grass as he walked. As he opened his mouth to congratulate the smith on his expert shoeing of one of his favourite horses, there came a shout from near the road.

  The smith looked up from where he was engaged knocking a post into the ground and swore beneath his breath.

  “They’ve got a nerve,” he rumbled.

  As Melville raised his eyes to the road he saw a ragtag gang of dissolutes enter the field. The effect was immediate. If the villagers had so far been keen to indicate their divisions from each other, now they came together as one. It seemed, despite their differences, that the people of Larton could agree upon one thing; their antipathy toward the travellers. Tools were dropped in unison and chores were abandoned unfinished. Stalls were left unmanned and carts unloaded as, almost to a man, the villagers moved to confront the gang, Maxwell Trevitt at their head. Rolling up his shirtsleeves as he walked, he thrust his great fleshy chin before him in readiness for a fight.

  There were perhaps twenty of them, each of them walking at speed towards the river. Jared and Ida Stoker led them onto the field, marching in time to the sound of a squeezebox. They appeared to not have a care in the world, which irritated the villagers all the more and, in particular, Trevitt.

  “There’s nothing here for you, Stoker,” the farmer hissed, his broken nose flushing with anger. “Get your filthy camp packed away and be gone.”

  “There’s no man here can stop us,” Stoker replied, his hands on his hips. His long hair lay over his shoulders.

  “Nor no woman, neither,” added Ida looking round. “Though from the sight of them they’d put up a better fight.”

  The travellers behind her laughed.

  “That one’s wearing my scarf!” A young woman with a basket of flowers had stepped from the crowd to point at one of the men. “I hung that out only last week and it disappeared. I’d know it anywhere.”

  “Don’t be daft,” the man replied, fingering the scrap of bright material tied around his neck, “I’ve had the thing for years.”

  “I had tools taken from my forge these last few days,” piped up the smith. “Reckon I know where they’ve gone, too.”

  “Same place as my stirrups!” called another. “They were cut from my horse in broad daylight.”

  “Happen we’d find them all up in Chalk Wood!”

  “You’re nothing but thieves and vagabonds,” Trevitt spat. “And no doubt murderers, too.”

  The man with the missing stirrups raised his fists. “Get yourselves gone if you value your lives!” The shout was taken up by the other villagers. Those with tools still in their hands waved them in the air. “You’ll find no welcome in Larton.”

  Jared Stoker chewed at a liquorice root he had taken from his pocket. “Happy enough for us to pick your cherries for a pittance, ain’t you?” he leered. “Not so keen on us when we make our own terms.”

  “What time’s the races?” asked Ida, airily. “Reckon we might put in a boat of our own.” She nodded to a knot of trees by the river. “We could soon hollow out a trunk between us.”

  Trevitt took a step forward, burying a hairy fist in the palm of his hand by way of a warning. “We know what you did to Cousins and we’ll see you swing for it.”

  There were more jeers from the crowd and several of the men spat upon the ground in anger. “If hanging was good enough for Cousins,” called one to shouts of agreement, “it’ll be good enough for you!”

  “His wife blames you, Trevitt. So says William Oats.” Stoker stripped a piece of the root with his teeth, sucking on its stringy flesh as he spoke. “P’raps Scotland Yard should ask you a question or two.”

  “My conscience is clear,” rasped Trevitt. “I’ve got nought to hide.”

  Stoker raised his eyebrows at the remark. “I think you’ve got more to hide than many of us, Maxwell Trevitt.”

  Trevitt shifted uncomfortably where he stood, his fists momentarily dropping an inch.

  “Gentlemen, please,” Lord Melville intervened, his cane swinging before him. “Cannot the whole village come together for one day?” He turned to Stoker. “If you are here to help, you’ll find employment enough. If not, there’s no law to prevent you staying.” He heard Trevitt harrumph behind him. “And we will not take the law into our own hands, will we, Mr Trevitt?”

  It took a supreme effort of will for Maxwell Trevitt to give ground. Throwing up his hands in disgust at the turn of events, he backed away into the throng, muttering dark oaths beneath his breath. Slowly, the crowd dissipated and returned to their preparations for the regatta, many of them looking over their shoulders at the travellers in their midst.

  As Ida Stoker threw her arms around her husband and kissed his cheek in delight, she noticed he was more guarded in his victory. “Small victories, my love,” he breathed. “But we’ve yet to win the war.”

  The police station stood back from the road a little way from Larton Station. There was nothing particularly notable about the building with its soulless square windows and an unexceptional wooden door, save that it was clear from its diminutive size that the Larton Constabulary was a small force indeed. With a settled population of less than two thousand individuals, an allowance of just two officers had been granted to police the streets and keep the fragile peace between neighbours.

  Constable Corrigan enjoyed his job to a point, but felt the challenge of dealing with the people of Larton and their many travails were second to the challenges of dealing with his sergeant, Aloysius Blunt. Blunt was a man in his sixties who had fallen into the service as a result of being the only man to apply for the position. He cared not a jot for policing, but rather treated his place in the Force as an excuse to do as little work as possible. And so it fell to Constable Corrigan to pound the streets in all weathers whilst Blunt manned the desk at the station. With few visitors, the sergeant would often abandon his post altogether, only to be found drinking in The King’s Head or fishing off the bridge into the River Thames.

  Never one to upset the applecart, Corrigan simply pocketed his one pound, three shillings and eleven pence every week and awaited the day when he might fill Blunt’s boots himself and enjoy a life of similar ease. Judging from Blunt’s w
heezing chest and sweaty brow, that day might come at any time.

  “I hope you are enjoying your sojourn to Larton, Inspector Bowman? You have certainly brought the weather with you.”

  Bowman regarded the man before him. Greville Whitlock had introduced himself as the coroner to Larton and the surrounding villages. Holding out a fleshy, slightly damp hand, he had gazed at Bowman through a pair of steel wire spectacles. He had an immense expanse of a bald head which reflected the light sufficient to make Bowman blink against the glare. Nests of wiry, white hair nestled above the man’s ears and even, the inspector couldn’t help but notice, in them. A luxuriant white moustache adorned his upper lip.

  “I am not here to take the country air, Mr Whitlock,” Bowman asserted, “but to investigate the death of Fletcher Cousins.”

  The coroner nodded, seriously. “But, of course. There is much gossip in the village, but I believe my findings are robust.” As he spoke, Whitlock moved behind the desk that stood in the middle of the room. Aside from this, there was little other furniture. With himself, Graves, Whitlock and Constable Corrigan squeezed into the small office, Bowman noted wryly that there wasn’t even enough chairs for them all. He pressed his fingers to his temples.

  “Please, inspector,” offered Whitlock with a kindly smile. “Won’t you sit?”

  “You believe Cousins committed suicide?” replied Bowman, ignoring him. He noticed there was no trace of the local accent to his voice.

  “Indeed,” replied Whitlock simply, lowering himself into the chair behind the desk. “And that is what I shall say in my report.” Constable Corrigan stood by the window, his hands behind his back. He was in full constabulary uniform save his hat that he had hung on the stand by the door.