The Body in the Trees

by Richard James

  Turning back to the road, neither Bowman nor Graves noticed the tousled headed child with a freckled face who, hiding beneath the bridge with his dog, had heard every word. As the detectives ambled slowly away in the heat, the young boy hid his makeshift tent from view with some rushes from the river. Grabbing his hound by the scruff of his neck, he made his way carefully from his camp so as not to be seen and turned his feet towards Chalk Wood.

  The open stretch of land that separated Larton Rise from the Village was regarded as a no-man’s-land. Part of the Larton Commons, it was maintained by the Freemen of the Borough for the use of all and grazed by sheep belonging to the Larton Manor estate. In a village so beset with petty rivalries and ancient complaints, it was the one parcel of land not contested by the locals. The Queen of the May was proclaimed here every year, the goose fair made its home here in the autumn and, today, the Larton Regatta spilled from the riverbank across the field to the causeway. An area totalling some forty acres was given over to stalls selling beer from local breweries, fruit from local orchards and even livestock from local farms. A pen of pigs had been set by the entrance to the field, their squeals and grunts acting as a welcome to the revellers. Chickens scratched at the ground by a fruit stall, often darting this way and that to avoid the heavy boots and walking canes that weaved amongst the throng. It seemed the whole village had turned out for the regatta. Even on the slope leading from the causeway, blankets had been laid for picnics. Ladies in their finest dresses sheltered from the heat of the sun beneath parasols and umbrellas whilst the men stood and chatted in groups, pipes clamped tight between their teeth. Even on such a day, it was clear there were divisions between the villagers. Discrete knots of people clung together, nudging and nodding at other groups across the field. Children ran between their legs, even the poorest of them having made concessions to the spirit of the day. Ragged ties were knotted around their frayed collars, battered hats were perched precariously on their heads. They darted between the stalls to try and filch an apple or two. Many of the revellers stood in the shade of one of a number of large marquees along the riverbank. The grandest of them all, festooned with bunting and flags of all nations, was reserved for the finer people of Larton Dean. They sat, remote and aloof, upon a raised stage. The intention was to give them as fine a view as possible of the ensuing races, but it also served to remind the villagers of their place in proceedings. They had even been spared the walk to the river, their marquee opening to a small track that gave access from the road to their coaches. Thus, they had only to manage a few steps to their sheltered position above the riverbank, from where they might survey the hoi polloi baking in the sun. Their children looked on with equal measures of disdain and envy at their poorer contemporaries below. One of the rougher children had even broken through the fence to the pigpen and, much to the farmer’s consternation, was now riding the largest pig about the pen as if it were a charger and he a knight of the realm. His parents stood nearby, clearly drunk at even this early hour, laughing at the spectacle and cheering the lad on.

  As Bowman stepped gingerly over a couple rolling amorously on the grass, he joined a queue at a stall selling fresh lemonade. The stallkeeper regarded the inspector with suspicious eyes as he poured his drink from a large, earthenware jug.

  “You’re the Scotland Yarder?” he leered from beneath a cloth cap. Bowman couldn’t help but notice the man’s teeth. They protruded at alarming angles, each a different colour to its neighbour.

  “I am,” Bowman confirmed as he downed his drink. His thirst was so violent and his head so thick that he did not care that he could barely taste the lemons. “Are you local?”

  “As local as they come,” the man sneered. “Three generations of my family have run the general provisions store on the high street, just opposite The King’s Head.”

  Bowman nodded. Alarmingly, the last of his drink had contained a portion of dusty grit. “Did you know Erasmus Finch?” he asked, running his tongue around his teeth.

  “As well as any man could.” The man attempted a knowing smile. “But I’d rather talk of his widow.” He ran his tongue over his lips as he nodded across the field. Turning to follow his gaze, Bowman saw a rather comely young woman dressed in a black crinoline dress and resting an open umbrella on her shoulder. She stared absently before her, a small basket in the crook of her arm piled high with walnuts. The inspector noticed she seemed entirely alone. Not one person stopped to inquire after her health. In fact, the villagers skirted around her, keen to give the widow a wide berth.

  “Who knows what’ll become of her now,” the stallholder grinned. “Reckon she’ll be open to offers soon enough.” Bowman turned in time to see the man giving him an exaggerated, lascivious wink. Bowman was alarmed at quite how unabashed the intimation had been. Looking around him, he saw several other men standing about the stall, each catching the man’s eye and returning the gesture with a low, knowing laugh. One leaned over to flick the man’s cap from his head.

  “Don’t think you’d stand a chance with your wife watching, Phelps,” he laughed.

  The now hatless man appealed to the inspector. “Is looking at a comely woman now a hanging offence, inspector?”

  Bowman rolled his eyes as he turned away, reaching for his mouth to wipe the grit from his lips with the back of a sleeve. The men around him laughed all the more.

  Crossing the field to join his sergeant, Bowman fancied the woman in black had noticed him. She seemed to follow him with her sad eyes as he walked, though he was embarrassed to find she forwent the opportunity to return his smile.

  “There you are, sir,” Graves exclaimed, munching on an apple.

  “Keeping the doctor away, Graves?” Bowman quipped drily, looking about him at the throng.

  Graves grinned. “It’s working so far, sir.” Finishing his apple, he threw the core to the grass and wiped his hands on his trousers.

  “Just beware,” Bowman continued, his voice low and conspiratorial. “It’s the second Saturday of the month. If the pattern is to be repeated, there might well be another death today.”

  Graves’ eyebrows rose. “Here, sir?” Looking around the bustling field, he found it doubtful such a thing could be attempted in so public a place.

  Bowman’s frown cut deep. “I would say it was the perfect time and place, Graves. The whole of the village is here including, perhaps, the murderer. It would not surprise me at all to learn that they had struck already.”

  “Where?” Graves looked about him, suddenly alarmed.

  Bowman turned to him. His head, at last, had ceased its relentless throbbing. “There is no better hiding place than in a crowd,” he cautioned.

  Graves took in the scene around him with fresh eyes. Looking closer, he saw a fight had broken out on a grassy bank. Two men threw their fists at one another while a third tried to intervene. Over by the band, he saw a young woman slap a suitor about the face. Eager to escape his advances, she turned and ran to an older, rather severe-looking couple that Graves took to be her parents. The father glared at the young man from beneath a straw boater. Behind them a knot of travellers, Jared Stoker among them, gathered, talking amongst themselves. Every now and then, they would cast dark looks at certain of the villagers. One or two of the revellers rose to the bait, squaring up to them with raised fists before moving on. Over by a clump of trees, Graves noticed a figure lying face down on the grass, unmoving and unnoticed. The crowd moved around him without so much as a glance. Graves’ heart quickened. Just as he was about to move towards the man, a gang of youths approached the prone figure, prodding him with a foot. At last, he roused himself, reaching up to take the tankard of ale offered him by his friends. Graves shook his head.

  “You’re up!” The shout came from the riverbank. There, the boats were being lifted from the grass by their crews; a motley collection of labourers, shopkeepers and villagers in various states of dress. Many of the men had stripped to the waist in anticipation of a dunking, their wives standin
g to applaud them as they lowered their boats into the water.

  “They’ve roped me in, sir,” Graves explained, responding with a cheerful wave. “I’m to row a boat with the shopkeepers.”

  Bowman looked over to the riverbank. There were six or seven boats in all, each now bobbing about on the river. Oars were passed from the bank and laid in their hulls as the crews stepped carefully aboard. The inspector could see that one man was already chest deep in the water, gaily splashing at his crew members as they took their seats. He was a large man with a bald head and fleshy shoulders. “Haul him in!” called a wiry fellow with a pipe from the shore. At his command, two men leant from the boat to drag their fleshy comrade over the rowlocks to his place. Wholly out of the water now, he could be seen in all his splendour. A great white belly wobbled as he rolled in the hull. “Put him at the back,” the man continued, “The extra weight’ll keep yer prow up!”

  “Or sink ’em!” laughed a man from another, sleeker boat by the bank. Bowman recognised him as Phelps the stallholder who had served him his gritty lemonade.

  “That’s my boat,” Graves offered, excitedly.

  “Well done, Graves,” Bowman nodded, impressed. “Whether they’ll know you for a champion or a fool I can’t yet tell, but they’ll know you well enough by the race’s end. Then, perhaps we’ll make some progress.”

  Graves waved again towards the crew and loped towards the riverbank, his long legs stepping over those already seated on the grass to enjoy the spectacle. He was pleased to see that Maude from The King’s Head had joined the throng. He caught her eye as he stretched a leg over the side of the boat and took his place on the starboard side.

  Looking along the line of boats, Bowman saw that they each held a crew of five. He recognised Prescott the driver and the estate gardener from Lord Melville’s estate in the smartest boat of all. It was sleeker than the rest and polished to a shine. The word ‘Marigold’ was painted in a long, flowing script along the prow. Next to it, a wider boat sat low in the water, crewed by a gang of burly lads Bowman took to be farm workers. They had the skin of those who spend their days in the open elements. They seemed to shine in the sun as much as any polished wood. To huge cheers, they were already having to bale out the boat of the water that had seeped in between the rickety planks. Cupping their hands, they fought to keep afloat.

  “It’d be a fine thing if you made the starting line!” the man with the pipe laughed, and the crowd cheered all the more.

  Standing amongst it all was Lord Melville, leaning on his cane and looking pleased with proceedings. Bowman was about to approach him, when his eye was caught by the woman behind the table on Trevitt’s fruit stall. Standing in the shade of an umbrella, she seemed barely to be enjoying the day at all. As all around her dissolved into hilarity, she stood with her eyes cast down at the grass, hardly daring to meet anyone’s eye. Trevitt’s wife.

  “Mrs Trevitt,” Bowman began as he approached. He noticed she flinched as he spoke.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered, her voice lacking force. “How can I help you, sir?” She gestured at the table before her. Bowman could see she was low of stock. A few blemished cherries rolled in the bottom of a basket.

  “I am Detective Inspector Bowman,” the inspector continued. “Is your husband not at his stall?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “Is he rowing, then?” Bowman cast his eyes back to the water where the boats were lining up to start their race.

  “He’s taken the cart back to the farm. We’re low on fruit.” She looked away, almost apologetically. In fact, thought Bowman, everything about her was a gesture of apology. Her feet turned inwards as she stood, shifting her weight restlessly from side to side. As she wrung her hands together in agitation, Bowman noticed her nails looked bitten and cracked. She regarded him from under her brows as she spoke, seemingly grateful for the curtain of hair that fell across her face.

  “Mrs Trevitt,” Bowman began, his moustache twitching, “I wanted to thank you for last evening’s dinner.”

  The woman nodded, absently. Bowman could not help but notice that her cheek was bruised. Pausing to take a breath, he wondered how best to proceed. “Did you not consider joining us at the table?”

  Mrs Trevitt met the inspector’s gaze. She had the look of a scared animal. “It is not my place, sir,” she whispered, clearly afraid of being overheard.

  Bowman knew enough to tread carefully. “I have been married, Mrs Trevitt,” his own use of the past tense stuck in his throat. “I know that not every marriage can be as happy as mine.”

  The woman before him looked unsure how to respond. Her eyes darted about her as if in fear.

  “What is your place on the farm, Mrs Trevitt?” The bustle of the regatta proceeded apace as Bowman leaned over the table.

  “My place is to be Maxwell Trevitt’s wife,” she stammered. “That is enough.”

  Bowman felt his neck burning beneath his collar. “Would that include working on the farm?”

  “There is always something to be done, inspector.” Her voice was stronger now. “Life is hard here, and the work harder still.”

  Bowman nodded. “Would that account for the bruises upon your wrists?” The woman’s eyes widened at his impudence. “And upon your cheek?”

  “Inspector Bowman,” Mrs Trevitt hissed, “if you have been married, you will know that what passes between a husband and his wife is their business.”

  “Forgive me - ” Bowman began, swallowing hard.

  “You have caused trouble enough already,” the woman spat as she bent to pick up her basket. “You would do well to keep your London ways to yourself.”

  “There are places you can go,” Bowman offered, boldly. His mind flicked to the Women’s Refuge in Hanbury Street. Surely there must be such a thing in the nearest town.

  “You would have me in the workhouse?” Bowman was aware of the volume in her voice. Suddenly, she turned her face to the river. “What do you see on yonder bank, Inspector Bowman?” she asked.

  Confused, Bowman turned to follow her gaze. Beyond the river lay a meadow in full bloom. “A field?” he offered, tentatively.

  “I see spotted orchids, harebells and field poppies.” She turned, slightly. “And there, beneath the sycamore; cornflowers and fiddleneck. You should know never to keep your horse there, inspector, on account of the ragwort that grows by the hedge. It is deadly.”

  Bowman frowned. “Mrs Trevitt,” he stuttered, “I do not understand.”

  “Precisely.” Mrs Trevitt drew looks from those around her as she continued. “I know my place, Inspector Bowman, and that is here in Larton, with my husband.” Her eyes were suddenly stern. “Where is yours?”

  With that, she gathered her wares about her and walked away without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

  Looking about him, Bowman saw several people staring at him accusingly. It had been his intention to gain the villagers’ trust today. He could only hope Sergeant Graves was having more luck.

  A sudden, sharp, shriek from a whistle drew his attention to the river. All eyes were now on the line-up of mismatched boats arranged across its width. Bobbing on the water, they jostled for space on the starting line indicated by two young lads on opposite banks. Each held a flag in their hand, ready to raise when the boats were in line. The crowd at the bank was now ten deep, and Bowman noticed much pushing and barging to gain advantage. Shouts of encouragement rose from the throng, and brawls broke out amongst supporters of competing crews. Even here, the inspector noticed, the villagers found something to fight about.

  Lord Melville had climbed a rostrum near the smart marquee by the starting line and now stood facing the river, a whistle in his hand. Bowman pushed forward to the riverbank. Beside him, a tall man bent to lift a small girl to his shoulders. She squealed with delight as she flew through the air, then cheered as she saw the boats before her. Far below, her friends laughed and paddled in the water. From here, Bowman could see Sergeant G
raves in the second craft along, glancing around at the competition. He thought his boat looked a little low in the water. Catching the inspector’s eye, Graves offered him a nod and a wink. Bowman nodded back and glanced further up the river. There, he could see the bridge that marked the finishing line.

  Painted a garish blue, the iron structure had been opened with much fanfare just a few years before. Finally replacing the rickety ferry and punts the villagers had previously had to use, the bridge had at last provided the only crossing across the Thames for several miles. Having engaged the services of Brunel himself for its design, the newly formed Larton Bridge Company now found itself having to charge heavy tolls for its use, so much so that many of the local farmers could no longer afford to take their goods to market across the river. Bowman could see a few spectators strung out across its length, leaning over the balustrade as far as the tollhouse on the opposite bank. His heart in his mouth, the inspector suddenly remembered the significance of the day. If his suspicions were correct, there would be another death by the evening.

  An expectant silence fell. All eyes were on Lord Melville who stood, alert to the flags at either side of the river. They had both been raised, a sign that the boats were in line. The crews sat bent over their oars, their bodies tense. Each man was focussed on the course ahead, their heads leaning into the wind. Even the children paddling at the riverbank had ceased their splashing. The crowd drew a collective breath and Bowman could not help being caught up in the moment. He looked between Melville and Graves’ boat, hoping his sergeant would get the better start.