The Body in the Trees

by Richard James

  “Bowman!”

  Bowman blinked.

  “My arm,” Hicks said, simply. “Would you let me have it back?”

  With a jolt, Bowman realised he still had a hold of the man’s sleeve. He was gripping the material so hard that the muscles in his fingers had cramped.

  “I am sorry,” Bowman panted, letting go of Hicks’ arm. He licked his lips.

  “Are you quite well?” Bowman knew the question was loaded. Hicks raised his eyebrows in the expectation of an answer.

  “It is very hot,” Bowman offered.

  “It is that,” Hicks replied, not at all convinced. He raised his eyes to the bright blue sky. There was not a hint of a cloud to be seen. “And I dare say it’ll get worse before it gets better.”

  Bowman nodded as he turned away to cross the road. That, he mused to himself ruefully, was the wisest thing Hicks had ever said.

  XVII

  Mob Rule

  The word had spread through Larton like a fire from tree to tree. As the morning services were concluded in each of Larton’s churches, so the congregations turned their feet to Trevitt’s farm in Larton Dean. The shopkeepers and professional men of the Village joined the workers and field labourers of the Rise on a progress to the high ground in the distance. Only the well-to-do of Larton Dean declined to join them. Aloof as ever behind their wrought iron gates and tall yew hedges, they hid themselves away as they always did, content to let the life of the village continue around them, determined not to be involved.

  The cherry trees seemed to groan with the weight of their load. Their boughs, heavy with fruit, drooped to the ground. Wasps buzzed from branch to branch, drunk on the plump, overripe cherries. Left unpicked, they had fallen to waste. Just a few days had seen them turn to a soft, inedible mulch, fit only for the insects and birds.

  The ground was hard and unyielding beneath their feet as the villagers headed to the large barn that stood on the perimeter of Trevitt’s farm. Those who had not spoken with one another for decades deigned to exchange eye contact. There were looks of surprise at the sheer numbers who had given up their Sunday at Trevitt’s invitation. Suspicion had given way to curiosity. Swept up in the movement of people through the village, no one had wanted to be left behind. It was an irony not lost on many of them that Maxwell Trevitt had managed to unite the village. It remained to be seen to what end.

  William Oats stood by the entrance to the barn, leaning on the handle of a fork. Under Trevitt’s instructions, he had cleared the ground and erected a small stage at one end of the building; a simple structure comprising some old boxes lashed together with rope. Ordinarily, the barn would be bursting with produce. Box after box would be stacked to the roof, each containing the spoils of a hard day’s picking; cassir cherries. Known for their rich purple hue and sweet taste, it was said they were enjoyed by no less a person than the Tsar of Russia. It was, Trevitt was wont to remark, a most imperial fruit. It could fetch an imperial price, too. Packed and loaded onto carts at the farm, box after box would be transferred onto the Larton Donkey for the journey into London’s markets. Covent Garden, Berwick Street, Victoria Park and Shepherds Bush were loyal customers, seemingly insatiable in their appetite for the dark purple jewel that hung from Trevitt’s cherry trees. Sold by the box or the bag, they were the unmistakable sign that summer had arrived; displayed to great effect in the grocer’s window, or sold by the roadside from barrows with pretty awnings.

  Oats stood aside to watch the barn fill with curious villagers. He recognised just about every face from the blacksmith to the grocer and from the barber to the landlord. One face, however, eluded him. Just as the last of the stragglers rounded the hill to the orchard, they were joined by a mountain of a man in a long coat. He had an impressive beard that spread across his chest from his chin and a battered top hat was perched on his head. His arms swung in wide arcs as he walked, as if the action would propel him faster on his way, and a plume of smoke curled from the bowl of a pipe that he held tight in his teeth. Oats had never seen the man before, and he noticed that he walked alone and unremarked into the barn behind the throng, taking a position along the back wall from where he could better observe proceedings.

  The crush of people in the barn warmed the air quickly and soon the villagers were wilting in the heat. The few women present fanned themselves with their hands, the men mopped at their brows with their sleeves. Just as they were sure they were at the receiving end of some grand joke, Maxwell Trevitt appeared. Limping onto the makeshift stage, he eyed the crowd for a moment, the bruises on his face shining in the gloom. A cut beneath his eye had spread across his already broken nose, and he periodically pressed his hands to his ribs to alleviate the pain.

  “For five generations,” he began at last, his voice thick with emotion, “the Trevitts have grown cherries in Larton.” He spread his arms wide. “Everything you see around you has sprung from the fruit that grows on my trees.”

  “Shame you haven’t shared it with the rest of us!”

  Trevitt peered into the crowd, trying to find the heckler. His eyes rested on a young man with long hair and a longer face.

  “Albert Pickering,” Trevitt began, “if ever you should leave the village and find yourself at Covent Garden, you will find the name of Trevitt and the village of Larton is held in high esteem.”

  “What good is that to us?” Pickering spat. “We’d rather have food in our bellies than be held in high esteem.”

  “He’s too busy hiring gypsies!”

  “So they can steal our things from underneath our noses!”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd and even a spontaneous burst of applause from a man in the corner.

  “They bring nothing but trouble,” the man interjected. “But Trevitt doesn’t care for that, so long as he gets his cherries picked!”

  There were more shouts of agreement. Trevitt sensed he was losing his audience.

  “I’ve learnt my lesson,” he shouted from his makeshift podium, “and I’ve learned it hard.” He rubbed at his cracked ribs with a hand as the crowd fell into a suspicious silence. Taking a painful breath, he adopted a conciliatory tone. “Perhaps it is time to come together,” he continud. “To come together as a village for the good of the village.”

  “He says that now the gypsies won’t work for him,” called a voice from the crowd. “And he’ll no doubt pay us a pittance, too.”

  “I shall pay you a fair rate, just as I paid them,” Trevitt pleaded. In truth, he had no such intention. “I have a matter of days before this year’s crop spoils.” He held his hands before him in a gesture of supplication. “Help me bring it in and you’ll share in the profits.” Anyone who knew Trevitt well would know how those words stuck in his throat, and how hard he was already thinking of ways to disentangle himself from his promise at a later date. He cared not for the consequences, only of getting the fruit from the trees to market. In truth, he was desperate. His treatment at the hands of Stoker’s men had only confirmed that their relationship had been shattered. There was no prospect of the gypsies ever working for him again, and that left him with a dilemma. Who would bring in the harvest? Swallowing his pride for the time being, he had decided upon a strategy. He looked around him at the faces in the barn. From their expressions it looked like it might just be working.

  “And if we don’t, will you burn us out of house and home as well?”

  Trevitt turned to the man in the corner. “I did not set that fire in Chalk Wood,” he asserted, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “Though in truth, I wish I had.”

  Suddenly, there was agreement. “They’ve had it coming!” called Albert Pickering. “I would’ve carried the torch for you if I’d known.” Trevitt noticed several nods of agreement. One man even clapped Pickering on the back for the remark. And, in that moment, Trevitt saw his course.

  “Then perhaps we should make an end of the matter,” he said, testing the waters. “Once and for all.”

  “I’d l
ike to see them pay for everything they’ve stolen!” The remark was greeted with a round of applause from the assembled crowd.

  “And for keeping our womenfolk in fear of their lives!” This was greeted with a cheer.

  “They live like animals,” Albert Pickering hissed, his eyes blazing. “Perhaps they should be beaten like animals.”

  “Let’s drive them from the village!”

  Trevitt looked on, amazed. He had never expected it to be so easy. Like putting a match to dry grass, he had ignited something in the villagers’ hearts. What was more, he realised, was that he was enjoying it.

  “Then what are you waiting for?” he boomed. “There are tools enough in the barn. Grab what you can and let's teach ’em a lesson!”

  The most enormous cheer erupted from the throng as they each turned to the walls. There hung scythes, rakes and shovels; all they needed to show the travellers of Chalk Wood that Larton had had enough. Men, women and even children grabbed at the tools, swinging them before them as if trying them for size. Weapons in their hands, they spilled from the barn with a single intent; to find the gypsies of Chalk Wood and mete out their revenge.

  William Oats stood by the door, distinctly unimpressed by the spectacle. Resolving to have no part in proceedings, he was about to turn his feet towards home, when his eye was caught by the large man with the beard and long coat. The only man without a weapon, Oats noticed him standing alone by the back wall, giving every indication of being at a complete loss as to what he was best to do.

  XVIII

  A Widow Speaks

  Newman’s Cottages stood back from the road behind a dilapidated fence. Their front gardens had been all but abandoned in the onslaught of the summer sun. The soil lay in unbroken lumps where it had been turned, the earth baked as hard as the shards of flint that littered the ground. Here and there, hardier plants clung to fence posts or languished by the path. Cheerful poppies stood tall by the gate, and Bowman noticed a patch of onions growing beneath a window. Number Three stood in the middle of the row, presenting a sad face to the world. The woodwork around the windows was brittle and cracked, flecks of paint peeling away to float like coloured dust to the neglected ground below. A small porch stood out from the facade, its roof a patchwork of hastily arranged tiles. Not all were of the same size, with the result that several holes were visible in the porch roof. A wooden trellis bent away from beneath an upstairs window, the dry skeleton of a climbing plant gripping to it for support, even in death.

  Even as he approached, Bowman was aware of being watched. Through the reflection of the road behind him, he could see a face peering from the corner of the downstairs window. Large eyes blinked at him, and Bowman was put in mind of what it is to face a scared animal in the woods around his Hampstead home. The inspector knocked at the door. Glancing through the small pane of cracked glass set into the wood, he could see the claustrophobic porch beyond and an open door to a small parlour. A vase of dried flowers sat upon a sideboard. From where Bowman stood on the doorstep, they looked like white roses. Soon enough, he heard movement within; the furtive, shuffling sounds of someone preparing for company where they had been expecting none. Suddenly, a face loomed from the dark of the porch towards the small window in the door.

  Taken by surprise, Bowman stepped back. In truth, his conversation with Inspector Hicks was still ringing in his ears. He pressed a hand against his chest to calm the thumping of his heart.

  The door was forced open a matter of inches, just enough to allow Prudence Finch a full view of the man before her. She seemed to cling to the door for support, Bowman noticed, like the dried stick clinging to the broken trellis beside him. It was clear she had no intention of breaking the silence first.

  “Mrs Finch?” Bowman spoke up at last. “I am Detective Inspector Bowman of Scotland Yard.”

  There was no hint of feeling in the woman’s face as she replied. “I know who you are.” She looked up and down the street. “I dare say there’s no one in Larton who doesn’t.”

  She turned to look at him, expectantly. Bowman at once felt under scrutiny. He swung his hat from his head and smoothed his hair with a hand. Catching his reflection in the door, he was suddenly aware of how thin he had become. “May I speak with you?” he asked, softly.

  “With regard to what?” Though possessive of the local burr, her voice was clear, her face difficult to read. It was an odd question, thought Bowman.

  “The death of your husband, Erasmus Finch.” He felt foolish at once.

  “I am a woman alone, Inspector Bowman, and widowed, too. How would such a thing look to the village?”

  Bowman felt he was being tested. “I should expect, if it were any business of theirs at all, it would look like the widow of a dead man was cooperating with an investigation into her husband’s death.”

  There was another silence as his response was weighed and considered. Bowman heard the screaming of swifts above him. He was aware of the sweat on his back.

  “Have you not brought enough trouble to the village already, inspector? Erasmus is dead. What good can you do?” Mrs Finch moved to close the door abruptly in the inspector’s face.

  “I am here on the express instructions of Lord Melville and the commissioner of Scotland Yard.”

  Mrs Finch opened the door again, a little wider this time. Bowman could see she was a slight figure, still in her Sunday dress from church. Her hair was pinned up on her head, framing an oval face with dark, almond shaped eyes. The faintest of lines had begun to appear around her mouth, but she was still clearly a young woman with all the attendant energy of one who has yet to meet her middle years.

  “Ah, yes,” she breathed. There was a touch of cynicism to her voice. “Lord Melville, who cares so much for Larton that he holds us all to the wall.”

  “How so?” Bowman leaned in, genuinely interested to hear her response. There was something about Lord Melville that he did not care for and he had felt it reflected at the regatta the day before. He had noticed much tugging of forelocks and doffing of caps in his Lordship’s presence, but they had been accompanied by sneers and sideways glances the moment his back had been turned.

  With a final look up and down the street, Prudence Finch was plainly satisfied their exchange had passed unnoticed. “You had better come in,” she said. “Before you are seen.”

  “How long have you lived in Larton?”

  The cottage looked even smaller on the inside. A single room greeted him from the porch, with one door leading out to a small lean-to kitchen and another to a flight of stairs which looped up and round to the upper floor. A single picture of a country landscape hung on the wall above the small fireplace. There was very little furniture besides the sideboard and two chairs that had clearly seen better days. Bowman could see an attempt had been made to disguise their decrepitude with the addition of a pair of threadbare blankets. Beneath them, he noticed straw stuffing bursting out of the seams, the headrests worn and discoloured.

  “Will all your questions be of such a private nature, inspector?”

  Bowman looked up, guiltily. “Begging your pardon, Mrs Finch.” He lowered his voice. “The death of your husband might well shed light on at least one other in the village.”

  The woman before him seemed to weigh her options before moving into the kitchen and gesturing the inspector sit with him at a rickety table. There was such limited space in the room that Bowman considered refusing the offer. He decided, however, that such a response might appear unduly rude, sensing he was going to have to work much harder to gain Mrs Finch’s trust. Pulling a chair from the table, he cast his eyes about him. The small lean-to was little more than some ill-fitting panes of glass fixed into a rotting wooden frame. The inspector was certain it would provide little shelter during the more inclement months of the year. As it was, the sunlight streamed into the room, giving sustenance to the few potted herbs that were arranged on shelves near a small cooking range. A heavy porcelain basin was placed against the wall,
though Bowman saw no evidence of running water. Looking through the glass to the scrappy gardens beyond, he saw there were no fences to separate the plots. Some small beds of vegetables lay scorched and neglected.

  “I am afraid,” he continued, “it is imperative that I know the details of your husband’s life in Larton if I am to make any sense of it at all.”

  Mrs Finch looked down at her lap. “I had thought to be out of my Sunday best by now.” She reached up to remove the pin from her hair.

  “I will be as brief as I can,” Bowman assured her.

  Mrs Finch rubbed her hands together nervously as she spoke in a gesture that Bowman found immediately beguiling. “I have lived in Larton for some six years, since I married Erasmus.”

  “Then you are not from Larton originally?”

  “Erasmus was born in Larton Rise but we met across the river in Wootton Green. My family have farmed there for generations, though not with any great success.” She stared out and across the garden as she spoke, revelling in her private memories. “I was the Queen of the May.” The corners of her mouth turned up at the memory, and she drew herself up in her chair with pride. “I was quite the catch in those days.”

  Bowman did not doubt it. Now her hair was loose about her face, he could see the odd wisp of grey. Beyond that, Mrs Finch had clearly retained whatever looks had first attracted Erasmus Finch.

  “Then Erasmus brought you here?” Bowman noticed a strand of hair caught between her lips.

  “The lot of a farmer’s daughter is not a happy one, and her prospects are slim. Erasmus offered me the hope of advancement.”

  Bowman cast his mind back to the Berkshire Chronicle’s reports of Erasmus’ death. “The newspapers say he worked for the railway.”

  “And that is so. He was a clerk at Reading Station.” Again, she puffed herself up with pride at the thought. “He had an office with his name at the door.”

  “And so you married?” Bowman placed an elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand. He felt strangely at ease listening to the details of someone else’s life. It was, he realised, a distraction from having to consider his own.