Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series

by John Whitbourn

  Disvan continued the litany of errors. ‘He’s sacked some of the longest serving farmworkers and, by all accounts, operates a terror regime over the remainder. He’s cut down the old trees, whether they were in the way or not. He’s sprayed the wayside flowers to death. He shoots people’s cats and dogs if they so much as look at his land and... so on and on, Mr Oakley. He’s a little man, you see. Put a farm or a gun in his hands and he starts to act the bully.’

  Doctor Bani-Sadr put the cap on the list of these most grievous faults.

  ‘And now, when the farm looks like something out of the Russian steppes or American Mid-West—only more sterile—he’s found out about the last vestige of free life in his domain, the badgers. To complete his scorched earth policy, he has to exterminate them.’

  Disvan nodded.

  ‘To tell you the truth, Mr Oakley,’ he said, ‘despite all my best efforts to see his good side, I don’t like that man.’

  I was shocked. I’d rarely heard Mr Disvan condemn a person without reservation. It had the effect of a pronouncement of judgement or a threat, without possessing the form or substance of either.

  ‘Well okay,’ I said hastily, ‘even if all you say is true—and forgive me if this sounds heretical—what is the great importance of these animals’ survival? I mean, are they really worth all the trouble?’

  I feared that my question would further offend local sensitivities but, if it did, those assembled gave little sign of it. One of the advantages of being regarded as a ‘newcomer’ was that not much was expected of me.

  Mr Disvan sighed—more at life in general, I think, than at me.

  ‘There’s something in what you say, Mr Oakley,’ he said. ‘The world wouldn’t stop turning if the badgers were disposed of—but neither would it be a better place. It’s more in the nature of being the last straw to us, you see. According to the old records, there’s been a large badger sett on that farm since... oh, the 1400s I should think. The D’Brock family, who’ve owned it since at least then, always tolerated their presence—fostered it even. I recall being shown the family coat of arms and there’s even a badger there. It shows you how far back all this goes. Maybe even the family name derives from the badger connection, from somewhen before written records and proper surnames.’

  ‘Well, if you know the actual owners,’ I said, seeing an elegant solution to the problem, ‘why don’t you talk to them and get them to rein this Wheldon chap in?’

  ‘Would that I could, Mr Oakley, but the direct line died out not so long ago. The land passed to distant relatives who live in the New World.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Mr Disvan means America,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr swiftly.

  ‘That’s right. In California I think. Apparently they’ve no knowledge of the farm and even less interest in it, so they get managers appointed to run the place. And, with a whole ocean between them and Senlac Farm, there’s nothing to stop the manager doing just as he pleases so long as the money continues to roll in.’

  There you have it, Mr Disvan,’ said Mr Wessner. ‘You’ve got to admit that Wheldon does make money. I bet the farm’s profits have shot up since he’s been there.’

  Disvan readily agreed. ‘Yes, I’ll concede that point’ he said. ‘He is a good businessman—if you take the short term view.’

  This Parthian qualification shot down any other planned attempts at justifying Wheldon before they even got under way.

  ‘Accordingly,’ Disvan continued, ‘we’re stuck with Mr Wheldon and his “final solution” tendencies. No, it was a good idea, Mr Oakley but there’s no mileage in it, I’m afraid. You were right in principle, though. The old-time D’Brocks would have never have permitted anyone to do what is proposed.’

  There was a slight pause in conversation now that the ‘five minute hate’ was over. The landlord, a true professional, who regarded silence in the same way that Nature regards vacuums, felt obliged to restart the debate.

  ‘This is all very well,’ he said, ‘but what are we going to do? I’m no legal expert, but I know enough to realise that if you disobey this injunction then we’re talking about a massive fine, maybe even prison. Look what happened to the miners!’

  ‘Well...’ said Mr Disvan slowly, ‘if you’re right—and I suspect you are—there’s nothing much we can do, being the law abiding citizens we are.’

  ‘With a healthy fear of fines and Her Majesty’s hospitality,’ cut in Mr Wessner, without, for once, any trace of sarcasm that I could detect.

  ‘Exactly,’ Disvan concurred. ‘Direct action on our part is therefore out of the question.’

  I was glad to hear this sensible assessment of the situation, having no wish to see my old friend bankrupted or gaoled. My relief was premature; he had more to say.

  ‘Although,’ he continued, as if musing to himself, ‘it occurs to me that our Mr Wheldon, in his rush and arrogance, didn’t think to consult with the people whose opinion really matters here. And, if that’s so, perhaps I can take the issue to a higher court of appeal.’

  He turned and smiled at me and my protestations about the ruinous cost of such a course of action died on my lips. Something about his manner—perhaps the deep-space, icy cold of his eyes or the quiet confidence of the voice—told me that we were not talking about any normal court of law.

  * * *

  With masterful bad timing, Wheldon and his accomplices chose a Saturday for their next attempt at victory in what was becoming the Great Badger War. Accordingly, after word somehow got out, a large number of local people, including myself, were free to go and observe operations. Mr Disvan called at my house and persuaded me to accompany him.

  ‘It’ll be instructive for you,’ he said, somewhat mysteriously.

  I was more concerned with supplying a restraining influence and keeping him from trouble than in any lessons that might be learnt, and I agreed to go on that basis. Picking up the Argyll crowd en route, we arrived, as chance would have it, at the same time as the Ministry van and the accompanying police car. The crowd awaiting them started up a credible chorus of boos and hisses by way of greeting.

  Surveying the scene, I was powerfully reminded of the neat battle lines of some conflict out of pre-rifle warfare. On one side, blocking the farm entrance, stood a single rank of Senlac farm labourers; sullen, unwilling conscripts in the struggle. In and out of their line danced the diminutive, agitated figure of Mr Wheldon, barking orders like some latter-day Napoleon in green wellingtons. In martial array facing the above was a rabble of student types—enthusiastic but undisciplined barbarian auxiliaries in the service of Binscombe. Beside these, shoulder to shoulder, was a phalanx of Binscomites, largely silent and watchful—ordinary suburban people now suddenly transformed to look surprisingly dangerous.

  Each side had a general staff, slightly detached from the rank and file. Mr Disvan, surrounded by his praetorian guard of Argyll regulars, occupied a grassy knoll to the rear. In the farm courtyard, the Senlac Farm cavalry (Mrs Wheldon and her two daughters), supported by two lawyer infantrymen, competed with Mr Wheldon in shouting contradictory orders, ignored by all.

  The uninvolved observer, as always, I wondered idly if this was how the English Civil War had looked when it arrived in Binscombe. Probably not, I concluded. The Roundheads and Cavaliers had not had a thin line of policemen between them to save them from their own stupidity.

  The officer in charge of these peacekeepers was evidently fearless. As soon as Wheldon’s solicitor pointed out Mr Disvan’s presence to him, he marched through the battle lines as if they were not there. A Red Sea style path was miraculously cleared for him as, more like Spartacus than Moses, he cleaved his way towards us. When he arrived I was expecting arrest at the very least. I should not have been of such little faith.

  ‘Morning, Mr Disvan,’ he said in a respectful voice.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector, how are you?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’

  ‘And your boy; did he get into Oxf
ord after all?’

  ‘By the skin of his teeth, yes. I’ll tell him you were asking after him.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The policeman sighed and spread his arms wide.

  ‘About all this, Mr Disvan,’ he said, ‘I don’t want any trouble, you know.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ replied Disvan reasonably.

  ‘You’re one of those named on that damn injunction, you see. If you take any action I’ll be left with no choice but to arrest you—God forbid!’

  ‘Of course you must, Edward. I understand that as well. It would be your duty.’

  A weight seemed to lift off the policeman’s shoulders.

  ‘Thank you. I’m extremely glad you see it that way. The point is that that prat Wheldon is determined to go through with this thing and I can’t stop him. So, if you stay on the public highway and don’t intervene, I really would be very grateful.’

  ‘Rest assured, Edward, I shan’t do a thing. I don’t think anyone will.’

  Suddenly ‘Edward’ was all stern guardian of the law again.

  ‘They’d better not,’ he growled. ‘If they so much as lay a finger on one of my woodentops, there will be a wailing and gnashing of teeth, they will weep bitter tears in the outer darkness of my nick—believe me.’

  He’s a Pentecostal Elder,’ whispered Mr Disvan to me. ‘Hence the biblical turn of phrase.’

  The inspector strode off, dreadnought-like, down the knoll but stopped five or six paces on as something obviously occurred to him. He turned and spoke again.

  ‘No hard feelings, I hope?’ he said in an almost placatory tone.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ replied Disvan.

  Thus comforted, he forged his way back into the centre of events. We saw the Wheldon family and their legal representatives rush (or canter, as appropriate) up to him and be waved away in a peremptory manner.

  ‘A very imposing man is Edward,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘During the War he killed a Japanese general in single combat. He’s got the man’s sword on display in his house.’

  ‘And his pickled head as well,’ added Doctor Bani-Sadr.

  ‘Well... that’s only rumour,’ protested Disvan.

  I could well believe it. The inspector pointed to each grouping of combatants in turn and then made a slashing gesture with his hand. The message was clear and somehow very compelling. One by one, each group fell silent. He then waved the Ministry van on.

  Once in the safety of the farmyard, the operatives felt safe enough to disembark. One conferred with a triumphant Wheldon while another unloaded what appeared to be a giant vacuum cleaner from the back. A low hum of disapproval came from the crowd.

  ‘Okay,’ said Mr Bretwalda, ‘now’s the time. Or are we going to do nothing and just watch it happen?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ replied Disvan. ‘Yes to the first part and no to the second.’

  I was going to query this sphinx-like pronouncement when events overtook me and interpreted it for us.

  Over the background produced by circa four score unhappy human beings, I heard several high pitched whistling sounds. I instantly thought of a time when I had faced a terrifyingly fast bowler at a school cricket match. The resonance of his invisible deliveries approaching my head remained fresh in my mind and came surging back to me at that moment. At the same time there were several popping noises, like the sound of distant bursting balloons.

  The speed and surprise of his nemesis was such that the Ministry man died in silence. He probably had no time to respond to the brief gap between being and whatever lies beyond.

  As one, the crowd looked at the man, keen despite themselves to observe one who’d gone on ahead to where all must follow. He lay face down in a spreading pool of blood, his ‘vacuum’ machine beside him. There appeared, to my poor eyesight, to be several short, feathered sticks protruding from his back.

  ‘So there you are, then,’ said Mr Disvan in a neutral tone. ‘Like I said, there’s nothing for us to do—because nothing is going to happen. Not now.’

  * * *

  There was, of course, a national furore about that day’s events but, for all the subsequent investigations, the matter stubbornly remained a mystery. The attention of the police and press lingered unpleasantly on us for a few days, but both found Binscombe people to be unsportingly taciturn. Some local people, including Mr Disvan, lost a few hours of their lives ‘helping police with their enquiries’ (or not, as the case may be) but no suspect, let alone culprit, was ever identified.

  Lacking the wisdom of my fellow Binscomites, I went so far as to ask Mr Disvan if he had any inside knowledge of the events, but I met a wall of silence of Sicilian proportions. He did express regret for the death of the workman but, in all the years that followed, I never heard him expand on this.

  For the want of fresh fuel for their interest, the outsiders soon left us alone and things more or less returned to normal. Since the London-based media’s butterfly attention was, by then, elsewhere, only the local papers picked up on the curiosities that emerged at the coroner’s inquest—and only then as a line or two at the end of their page four or five reports. These features did not, however, escape attuned Binscomite eyes, and they were duly noted and reflected upon, even if never discussed.

  It had been common knowledge from the beginning that the man had died from multiple gunshot and arrowhead wounds. The police forensic experts had surmised that he had fallen under a fusillade from at least half a dozen gunmen, archers and crossbowmen. These apparently skilful marksmen, firing, it was said, from somewhere within the farm area, had infiltrated themselves, and similarly made their getaway, without leaving any trace. Taken by itself, this was remarkable but not beyond the realms of possibility. Perhaps some secret government body had accordingly noted the existence of a group of armed subversives (renegade SAS? premature Spetsnaz?) in the area and marked our village down for a special going over in the event of national emergency.

  However, what made our piece of local bloodshed peculiar, even bizarre, was the nature of the weapons used. The coroner commented that the murderers would appear to have raided a museum in order to arm themselves. Weapons specialists, in the service of the police, had identified three different types of lead projectiles in the body of the deceased. All of them were musket balls, delivered from three different muzzle-loading firearms by means of loose, black gunpowder. The arrows had come from old style, unenhanced longbows; arrows that were, moreover, precise copies of fourteenth century types. Completing the lethal dosage was a heavy iron crossbow bolt—not like one used in the present day, but a bolt which had an exact brother in the Tower of London Armoury, in an exhibit labelled fifteenth century. It was impossible to say which had killed the man. Any of them could have, and all of them did.

  The expert had concluded his submission with a comment sufficiently striking to merit inclusion in the subsequent press reports. It was, he said, as if the workman had been killed by enemies from many ages.

  We, who were aware of the background to the case, suspected, in our darker moments, that he was wiser than he knew.

  * * *

  I would like to be able to say that the War of the Badgers ended there, but it did not. Two obstinate, self-assured ways of thought were engaged in a struggle from which only one could walk away. Skirmishing continued for several weeks. Wheldon sought to re-engage the Ministry’s death-dealing services, but the operatives’ union demanded a degree of danger money and (armed) security that made it prohibitive. To compensate for this frustrating setback, he shot a well known and much loved old dog from the village whose final roam may have taken her onto Senlac Farm land. The carcass was dumped by the roadside to serve as an example—though of what exactly, opinions varied.

  Retaliation was, of course, inevitable. Some agile person mounted the farmhouse roof in the dead of night and painted on it a huge black swastika. When day dawned, it was clearly visible from the village and even further afield, and was the cause of great hilarity in the fo
rty-eight hours it took the farm labourers to erase the mark. Some less imaginative person, clearly in the grip of powerful emotions, hurled a brick at Wheldon’s Bentley as it passed by, before escaping unseen into the network of footpaths and alleyways that criss-crossed the estate.

  The wearied police were periodically called in as incident succeeded incident, but there was little they could do. Theirs was the archetypal dilemma of humane colonial administration facing a disaffected, insurgent population. They had neither the manpower to enforce their will nor enough will to supply the necessary degree of repression. Their ranks were, moreover, riddled with Binscomites and similar potential fifth-columnists. It was probably no coincidence that Mr Disvan, among others to the forefront of events, always seemed exceedingly well informed on the authorities’ current thinking.

  It looked clear, to me at least, that events were escalating to the point where further blood would be spilled—and not necessarily that of the canine community.

  Then, against all expectation and all we knew of Wheldon’s character, he and his family disappeared from the scene. Before long, it was common currency (the state of labour relations at the farm being such that Wheldon could have few secrets from us) that they had taken a sudden, extended holiday in the USA—or New World, as Mr Disvan would have called it.

  It was a victory of sorts and, in the Argyll, the muggers of New York or Miami or wherever were wished good hunting. Word reached us that a new, more reasonable regime was temporarily in power at the farm.

  However, Wheldon survived the Binscomites’ transatlantic evil eye and returned, like malaria or herpes (as Doctor Bani-Sadr put it) after an absence of some months. For a week we heard nothing of him, all the time expecting hostilities to recommence in some spectacular way. People speculated on what deadly weapons he might have acquired in the States or what Mafiosi links he might have called upon.

  In the event, the saga was not moved on by a hail of bullets or visits from men in dark glasses. Instead, with, it must be said, commendable courage, Wheldon drove his Bentley down to the Argyll one evening and came in alone to request an interview with Mr Disvan.