by Sam Hurcom
‘Fine. Constable, I’ll expect your report completed by the morning. Ensure Richmond is available, so we can examine the body first thing. Mr Cummings and I will meet you at the church there – we’ll take a cart along the road rather than walk. We’ll make way at nine o’clock.’
Vaughn nodded enthusiastically.
Protocol should have dictated that next we inspect the site the travellers had occupied at the time of the murder. My vision was now spinning uncontrollably, however, and my body felt dreadfully lethargic. I began walking back to the mill and both Cummings and Vaughn followed obediently.
‘You doubt the travellers did this then?’ Cummings asked me when we were a little distance past the mill and heading back towards the village.
‘It seems too easy – many cases are left unchallenged because of easy answers.’
‘But surely,’ Cummings said confidently, ‘they remain the prime suspects?’
I nodded. ‘If what you and the young Constable say is true, that the girl was frequenting their campsite in the days and nights leading to her death, then certainly they remain suspect.’
I did little to engage with the pair after that. They bumbled through some questions which I merely ignored or dismissed abjectly. When we were in sight of Mill Hill I stopped for a brief moment to regain my composure. My headache had worsened to a painful migraine; I rubbed my temples and forehead. It’s difficult to think straight when one feels such a sharp pain behind the eyes.
‘Perhaps you could allow the Councilman and I a moment to talk, Constable. I’ll speak with you later regarding your report.’
Vaughn nodded hesitantly, sharing a quick glance with Cummings (which I noted in spite of my discomfort) before walking briskly up Mill Hill towards the village.
‘You forgot to mention the General to me, Cummings,’ I groaned somewhat when Vaughn was out of earshot. ‘I would speak with him before the day is out.’
‘I deal with the day-to-day running of the village, Bexley.’ Cummings’ tone was sharp and cutting – it seemed I had touched a nerve.
‘Regardless, he is the authority in this village and I’ll speak with him presently,’ I repeated. ‘I shall drop my things at the inn and you can take me to his estate on the common.’
As I continued to walk, Cummings marched after me. ‘How do you know of his estate, or of the General for that matter? I can assure you he shares the opinion that I hold!’
‘The Postmaster told me.’ I was in no mood to argue and continued the ascent towards the Twyn.
Within a few yards, Cummings barged past me, muttering something about the blackguard deliveryman.
When I was back in the relative cool of the inn, I made straight for my room. I dropped my case clumsily on the bed and sank my face into the bowl of water laid out for me on the table. I held my face under as long as I could before sitting on the bed as the cold water ran down my neck and shirt.
The migraine persisted though I felt momentarily revived. I doused my face for a few more minutes before making my way downstairs. The old man had vacated his seat in the lounge though Solomon remained behind the bar. As I came to the small foyer I turned and reminded him that there was no candle in my room. He didn’t answer me.
Cummings was waiting outside, and we walked across the Twyn in the direction of The Dragon Inn. Neither of us spoke.
We headed up a neat road that cut up and across the common a short distance. This was the mount, the trail leading to the General’s estate alone. His grounds encroached on the common’s border with a large wall running parallel to the road, above which the tops and peaks of tall sycamores were visible. Soon, we came to a large set of tall iron gates, black, with a gold seal and insignia emblazoned in the centre. Cummings pushed against the gates tentatively; they squealed as they opened slowly.
The space was far larger than I had estimated. A wide gravel road, skirting through the exterior gardens and lawns, led to a stately Georgian mansion adorned with large window bays and heavy growths of ivy. Flowers bloomed everywhere, many native though some clearly exotic and rare. Perfume and pollen was pungent in the air, enough to make the eyes water ever so slightly. In the centre of the front lawn a three-tiered circular fountain, topped with an audacious cherub, spouted water softly; it accompanied the chorus of birdsong that echoed and chimed high in the tops of the sycamore trees.
The building was somewhat disjointed, where extensions and conservatories had been adapted or added anew. The main entrance way was off centre, marked only by its small porch, finished with two Grecian-style columns that were undoubtedly made of marble. As we approached the porch, I shifted my gaze to each of the manor’s large windows. In a room to the far right on the second floor, I caught a glimpse of a gaunt and pallid figure watching us. He was not hidden, though he seemed a wretched and wasted shape. It was obvious that this man was General James.
As I stepped between the two marble pillars, Cummings pushed alongside me and gently pulled on a golden bell chain. We waited in silence for at least half a minute, until finally, with a loud shift of a metallic bolt, the door opened slowly.
A short, stout figure greeted Cummings with an air of disdain. ‘Your weekly meeting was yesterday, Councilman.’
Cummings offered his apologies. ‘This is the Inspector about whom I spoke to the General. He arrived earlier today and has asked to speak with the General.’
The woman in the doorway – the housekeeper by all accounts – turned her narrowed gaze upon me, before addressing Cummings in her calm, bristly tone.
‘The General left this matter in your hands, Councilman.’
Cummings agreed vehemently. ‘I have informed the Inspector, but he still demanded that we come.’
‘The Inspector may demand all he likes!’ The housekeeper replied as if I were not standing right there, my head pounding mercilessly. ‘Today is not a good day for such things.’
I opened my mouth to protest, but from somewhere deep in the gloom of the manor a voice bellowed out. The housekeeper sighed. She disappeared for a moment and we waited in silence once more. Upon her return, she opened the door wide and gestured for us to come in.
‘Apologies for my tone, Inspector,’ she said quietly. ‘The General will see you in a few moments if you would care to wait.’
The housekeeper made her way down the greeting hall we stood in and climbed a flight of stairs to the second-floor landing. Heavy doors opened and slammed, the noise echoed and bounced.
The interior was as well-kept as the gardens. Chequered-tiled floors shimmered in the haze of daylight that shone through the narrow windows of the entrance way. The walls, a light mint green, were all but bare as far as I could see, with the exception of a large portrait of a military officer in his prime. The red coatee, emblazoned with a white sash and ceremonial medals, the feathered bicorne and sleek rapier was the uniform appointed to the British soldiers of the American Revolution.
The piercing eyes of the soldier stared down at me. My mind flashed back to the mill and the shadowed figure I was certain had been inside. The women on the common. The flutter of a coat; horse hooves disappearing out of sight. No matter where I went in the village, it seemed I was always being watched. Now the soldier looked down upon me, his eyes filled with all the blood lust of a man who has seen far too much death. I turned away from the painting after only a moment.
‘I take it the General is in a poor state of health,’ I whispered to Cummings. He nodded silently.
‘His memory.’ He shook his head a little and I understood his meaning. A door opened on the landing and the housekeeper looked down upon us.
‘The General will speak with you, Inspector.’
Cummings and I moved towards the stairwell until the housekeeper spoke once more.
‘You may wait in the lounge, Councilman.’
Cummings’ face erupted. ‘As Head of the C
ouncil I shall be present with the General.’ He coughed and spluttered, his skin darkening like a thundercloud. ‘You may work for the General, woman, but you forget your place at times.’
‘My place, Mr Cummings, is right here, telling you to wait in the lounge.’ Her demeanour was wholly unperturbed, her polite, if wholly insincere, smile unwavering. It was clear who would win out in the argument.
‘I’ll wait outside,’ Cummings growled petulantly a moment later. He stormed off as I climbed the stairway and followed after the housekeeper. We passed through a heavy oak door, and down a short corridor. It was well lit and airy, with two large windows looking out to the gardens – I spotted Cummings pacing along the gravel path like a caged beast.
Rooms led off from the corridor, but we continued down to the very end.
‘The General is hard of hearing and prone to confusion,’ the housekeeper informed me. ‘He wanted to speak with you in person, though that is likely on account of seeing you walk up the driveway, rather than any knowledge of who you are or why you are here. Some days his memory is better than others; I’d ask you try not to exhaust him.’
At the end of the corridor, we came to a door with the three-feathered crest of the Prince of Wales above. The housekeeper knocked twice.
‘Five minutes,’ she intoned sternly, before leaving me at the door alone. I opened it slowly.
The General’s study was dark and gloomy; I was grateful to escape the brightness of the day that only seemed to be intensifying my migraine. The walls were deep maroon, finished with a border of golden flowers that had dulled to a tarnished bronze. The General sat with his back to me, his body concealed by a high leather chair, apart from one grey hand that hung over the arm.
As I walked towards him, I looked upon an impressive collection of military apparel that lined the walls and cluttered the cabinets. There were rifles of antiquity, muskets and pistols with small golden plaques noting their age and origin, an array of rapiers, broadswords, sabres, and a single Arabian scimitar, right up to the decorative castings that covered the dark ceiling. There were flags, medallions, small statues, helms and sashes, buckles and in the farthest corner (far from the natural light seeping in through the windows) a faded, yet pristine red coat. A fine painting of a bloody battle consumed much of the far wall, above a dark fireplace and mantel. To this day, I do not know what battle it depicted.
It all beggared belief, for although I admit I was then (and remain) no great militarist, it was obvious that many of the items in the room were over two hundred years old.
‘Quite the collection,’ I muttered to myself. In spite of his supposed poor hearing it seemed to stir the General, who murmured something under his breath. I walked into the room slowly and stepped around the leather chair.
The General was a wretched figure in person. His skin was stretched around his thin skull, tucked into the deep pockets beneath his eyes. They themselves were drained of all colour, desperately dark and lifeless. Thick veins sprung out at me, concealed only by a few wisps of grey hair. He had a white moustache that was bushy and unkempt; a thin cigar gave off a spindly trail of blue-grey smoke.
The General’s faded smoking jacket seemed to hang off his cadaverous frame. I thought to shake his hand but feared that may exhaust him.
‘General, my name is Thomas Bexley—’
He interrupted at volume. ‘Harriet says you are an Inspector.’
‘Of a type.’ I seemed to be repeating myself to anyone who would listen.
‘The type that solves crime, old chap? I always liked a good penny dreadful.’ He laughed and pointed to another leather chair. I sat down facing him.
‘As Lord of the Manor, General, I thought it appropriate to speak with you briefly to outline how I shall carry out my investigation and ask one or two questions. I shan’t take much of your time, sir.’
That made him laugh even more, though it was not a pleasant sound.
‘I have plenty of that!’
I nodded, trying to decide then if it were an outburst of wit or senility.
‘I’m sure you are aware of the sensitive details of what happened. Did you know of Betsan Tilny?’ He didn’t answer but took a deep drag on his cigar. I produced my notebook. ‘Cummings and the young Constable Vaughn have given me their opinion of what occurred. Perhaps you have another view?’
He fidgeted in his seat and stared at the painting above the mantel. I waited a few moments for an answer and got none.
‘Is there anything at all you can tell me, General?’
He raised a bony finger towards me and then lifted it toward the painting.
‘The King’s army rushed ’em, you see. The Grenadiers shafted them from the left and the cavalry flew in like whippets to a hare. They couldn’t stop the cavalry! Seems almost a shame really.’
He took another puff from his cigar and I looked from him to the painting. I realised then the extent to which the General’s decline was afflicting his mind as well as body. I made one last attempt to gather some information.
‘Vaughn believes the girl was killed by vagabonds.’
The General’s gaze remained fixed upon the painting, his lips peeling back to a ghastly grin.
‘Those Russian dogs never stood a chance.’
I pitied the General as I closed my notebook; it seemed futile outlining how I would proceed with the investigation. I took one further look around the study; at a large writing desk cluttered with papers close to the bay windows; at a stuffed Alsatian standing proudly, its jet black coat matted and thinning in patches.
I stood from my chair. ‘Thank you for your time, General. I’ll do my utmost to ensure the young woman’s killer is brought to justice.’
I took my leave of the old man, heading towards the door. As I passed his chair, the General took hold of my arm with uncanny speed. I was startled, my initial instinct to lurch away from him. He gripped hold of my forearm harder and twisted his neck to look up towards me.
‘My heart bleeds for her mother. My duty to her, to the child. That burden – what darkness have I let come to this place?’
His words chilled me; they were filled with cool clarity. His eyes had brightened, alive and focused. They were not the eyes of an infirm, aged man. He fixed onto me for what seemed an eternity and I dare say I struggled to maintain his gaze.
The door to the General’s study opened and it was a blessed mercy. The housekeeper, Harriet, spoke though I cannot recall what she said. I felt the General’s grip weaken a little, and pulled away from him before turning and leaving the room.
As the housekeeper walked me back down the corridor, I turned upon her.
‘Is he lucid often?’
‘The General has good days and bad days,’ was all she said in return.
So distracted was I by the General in his gloomy study, that for a brief few minutes, my migraine had lost some of its potency. In the bright corridor and stairwell, it returned with vicious venom. I remember pausing and taking grip of the banister, rubbing my eyes with my free hand. The edges of my vision seemed to darken and the world twisted and warped in dramatic fashion.
I recall the housekeeper’s insincere tone if not the words she spoke to me. I shook a hand and brushed past her upon the stairs in a discourteous manner. I did not bid farewell as I hauled open the heavy front door and emerged in the agonising light of the afternoon. I made my way down the gravel drive and Cummings appeared alongside me.
‘I’m afraid the heat of day has had some effect on my state, Mr Cummings. I had intended to begin questioning but shall retire for a time to my room.’
Cummings ignored me completely. ‘Did the General say anything to you? I wouldn’t take any notice of the old man, he’s quite mad, you know.’
I shook my head, which only intensified the throbbing and sense of nausea. I walked on and Cummings followed. We said very little
as we headed back to the Twyn, though he continued to remark on the man’s mental state. I am now all too aware that, were it up to him, I would never have seen or spoken to the General again.
4
Diary Entry – June 17th, 1904
I am troubled. This place troubles me.
It’s strange to think how fine I felt this morning. Have I become so callous, so insipid, as to take no disheartening from my duties? The death of a young woman seems not to affect me – what else have I lost in documenting the crimes of man?
I am too hard upon myself. It is just this day – WHAT a day! – that has made me feel so.
How different I feel this eve. I sit at the table and write by candlelight, a single candle mind, that I had to ask again for from Solomon. What a trauma to get so basic a thing! I returned from the General’s house and feeling poor, retired and rested in my room. That was no later than three, and when I woke some thirty minutes ago (revived in a manner), I swore into the darkness, for that was all there was until my eyes adjusted. The gas lamp in the road outside my window cast a white hue upon my small room, enough for me to read my watch and see it was a quarter past ten.
My head aches – my vision seems to fall in and out of focus. Nevertheless, I feel somewhat better than I did. I have managed to get some more food and water from Solomon, along with the single blasted candle. (But no matches! Lucky I carry my own.)
There is a ruckus in the bar below me, even at this late hour. Good business indeed for Solomon but a rowdier crowd than I would have imagined. I did not stay below for too long. Whatever illness has come to me may hopefully have passed by tomorrow, for it is the last thing I need hampering my work here. Already there have been things I should have attended to.
This is indeed a strange village, something from another time really.
Where to begin, what question or suspicion shouts loudest? The fact there is a body at all, the examination of which will be carried out in the morning, leaves me quite perplexed. We could assume that the perpetrator (or perpetrators) was disturbed in some manner, suspected discovery and perhaps, fearing such, fled from the body before they could adequately dispose of it. Yet the body was not discovered by Miller until the dawn (unless the truth of the matter is being concealed, which for argument’s sake, I suppose it is not); if the crime were committed during the night (and it is an if, for until I determine when the victim was last seen, estimating an accurate time of the murder will be very difficult) there would be ample time to hide the body.