by Sam Hurcom
‘Were there any items of clothing in the area or upon her person, any burnt remains?’
Vaughn shook his head.
‘Jewellery, a necklace or a ring perhaps?’
Vaughn shook his head once more.
I moved around and gently lifted the girl’s left, unburnt hand. The fingers and wrist were horribly cold and stiff.
‘There is blood, here. Can you see it?’ Vaughn leant in a little closer to where I pointed. ‘Just below three of her fingernails. Whatever attack took place, she lashed out and drew blood from the assailant. She was defending herself, meaning she inflicted defence wounds, scratches no doubt, upon her killer.’
I wrote in silence for some time, as Vaughn inspected the hand and fingers.
‘This rules out a few theories,’ I said quietly.
Cummings seemed baffled. ‘What can you possibly learn from this?’
I closed the report and began scribbling in my notepad.
‘Well, we now know this was not a sudden, violent act of passion. Had it been so, the assailant would not have desecrated the body in this way, other than the burning.’ I looked at Vaughn as an idea came to me. ‘Are you aware of fingerprint analysis? Scotland Yard adopted it as a serious practice a year or two ago?’
‘N-no, sir.’
‘We each have unique markings on our fingers, a trace of which is left when we touch anything, even another person’s skin. Had the perpetrator known of this, they may have wanted to burn the body to remove any trace of themselves.’ I shook my head dismissively. ‘I doubt they were aware of such things, though it’s made me think. We’d be wise to record the victim’s fingerprints. They may be relevant moving forwards; did either of you see ink upstairs?’
Vaughn hurried away and returned not two minutes later with a small bottle of rusted brown ink. Under the curious eye of Cummings, the pair of us set about recording each fingerprint on the girl’s unburnt hand, marking them on the last page of Vaughn’s report.
‘Burning,’ I continued as we set about this, ‘is often the means to which a criminal attempts to dispose of a corpse. This body was not fully cremated however and the scorch marks where the body was found do not correspond to the burn wounds inflicted. My first inclination would be to suggest the killer attempted to destroy the body with fire – though failed as it is not always an easy task – and then set about staging the scene close to the mill. With only a little more thought, though, I strongly doubt someone who killed the girl spontaneously, with no premeditation, would have set about that course of action.’
‘I d-don’t follow, Inspector,’ Vaughn uttered.
‘Why risk being caught defiling the body in this manner and staging it where they did? Only a fool would do so. Had the crime been spontaneous the girl would be found dead, but her body intact – so to speak – for the assailant would have panicked and fled the scene. Or there would be no body at all, for the assailant, mustering some sense, would have disposed of it.’
‘Meaning what, then?’ Cummings asked.
‘We have to accept now that this was an act of premeditation, or at least not an act of passion, as it were. The killer wanted the body found and has taken much effort to defile it in this manner and to stage the scene. To be blunt, the time taken to torture the girl, and then desecrate her corpse to this extent, would support the notion that the girl was killed somewhere else entirely and brought to rest where Miller found her. Due to its proximity and the vast amount of unattended space, we can assume the girl was killed somewhere in the woodlands.’
‘That would support our theory then,’ Vaughn chirped excitedly, ‘that the travellers could have done this in their camp.’
Cummings was nodding. ‘They have strange ways, the gypsies.’
‘Strange enough to implicate themselves in all this, make themselves prime suspects even? I have noted your opinion on the matter, Councilman, and it is still in consideration. But we have a few leads to follow up on, particularly regarding those who frequent the woods for work and the like.’
‘What leads – how on earth could we link anyone to this?’ Both Cummings and Vaughn seemed baffled.
‘If this was murder by a single man, he is quite depra—’
He never left, he still remains. The demon of this village.
The words burnt in my mind, spoken by a thousand voices a thousand times in an instant. My body weakened and I daresay I even gasped aloud. Whether Vaughn or Cummings moved or spoke I cannot say, for it took a great effort not to let myself fall to the floor. Blood boiled in my veins.
The voices silenced; my strength returned.
‘Depraved. Ill and violent. Undoubtedly he would hold a keepsake to commemorate the deed – I am afraid most men of this sort do.’
I pointed at the pale skin of her cold hand.
‘To draw blood, she must have done some visible damage. We need to look for anyone with scratch marks about their person.’
9
The Woodland – June 18th, 1904
By the time I returned to the clean air and stood amongst the gravestones outside All Saints, my fever had diminished somewhat. The fresh air helped invigorate me further. The day was still close and clammy, the cloud above darker than the morning. Yet I was glad to be out of the dust and shadow of the church and its cellar, though the sight of the corpse weighed heavy on my thoughts.
The world around us remained deathly still and quiet.
Cummings locked the church doors (for the cleric Richmond had not returned) and asked Vaughn if he would be travelling back to the Twyn with us.
‘Yes, perhaps we can discuss the c-case a little more,’ Vaughn said brightly.
‘Actually, Constable, I think I shall walk back. Take in the air.’ I trailed off a little then; I had a passing sensation of tiny claws burrowing into my back. ‘The fever and all.’
Vaughn seemed to hesitate for a moment. ‘A-are you sure? With respect, Inspector, you need bed rest. To hallucinate in such a manner—’
I nodded. ‘I appreciate your concern, but I would take a walk.’
I set my camera case on the back of the cart, checking then that my notepad and revolver were still about my person.
‘The travellers, were they camped far from here?’ I asked Vaughn as he hopped up to the driving box.
‘Well, they … Um.’
‘Quite a way,’ Cummings interrupted. ‘You have to travel up toward the Old Court Manor and take the trail right around back to the edge of the Cwm Sior. They were somewhere in the north fields, just before the woodland.’
‘I heard they were up further, on the trail headed towards Saint Andrew,’ Vaughn chipped in. The two men began debating.
‘Never mind,’ I said after a moment. ‘I shall take a walk and see what I see.’
I pointed further up the road, in the direction Joseph had headed with his overladen cart. Cummings gave me some loose directions and I began on my way.
‘I should talk with you later, Mr Cummings,’ I called over my shoulder.
He gave his reply and began turning the shire horse and cart. Soon after, I heard the rickety rig leave Michaelston and when there was silence again I stopped for a moment. I was certain, from where I stood upon the road, that I was the only living thing in some distance, for not even a vagrant thrush or blackbird could be seen soaring across the skyline.
Nothing, for all I could see, would suggest that a travelling band had made camp. There were no signs of fire, no cart or horse tracks in the earth. The thriving wheat and barley was untouched, the locks and chains barring the gates of the fields undamaged and unbroken.
By now I had been wandering for near two hours. Vaughn and Cummings had been uncertain of the camp and I did not think outright that they intended to mislead me. There was much I had not seen and had I been inclined to, I would have pressed on through the wo
odlands and surveyed the land further to the north and west. But I was tired then, in mind more than body, wrestling with the facts of the case and battling the creeping fever that simmered throughout me. The skies had continued to darken and soon after half past four, the heavens opened, cascading heavy rain down upon the land.
I found my way back to the rocky trail that led to Dinas Powys and continued along. Soon the rolling fields were left behind, replaced by dense forest, untamed shrubs and bramble bushes. I was entering the Cwm Sior and the bank of trees marking the foot of the woodland to my right began to grow steadily steeper, the canopy hanging over me in ever more precarious fashion. Soon, the bank was replaced by a tall cliff face, that ascended some hundred feet or so. It was wholly impenetrable, lifeless albeit for a few daring saplings that grew in shallow cracks and crevices. My path wound at the foot of this cliff face, with a steep incline of greenwood, scouring upward on the other side of the gorge.
I was sodden, drenched and dripping, my forehead hot whilst the rest of my body shivered. I wound through the tight ravine, losing myself at times, returning to the dark cellar, with the single flame of the candelabra in hand.
I heard the strange voice again, felt breath against my ear, the sickly touch of burnt flesh against my bare skin.
The demon of this village.
The trees rustled the words to me with each wisp of wind. Over and over, I heard them, no matter how hard I tried not to listen or to convince myself it was the fever. But soon I was talking to the trees as they spoke to me.
‘What happened to you?’ I recall mumbling, as though I were speaking to Betsan herself. ‘What happened to you?’
There came no answer. I have no memory of passing the scene where the body was found, or the mill, though I surely must have, for well past five of the hour I ‘awoke’ as it were, at the foot of the Pen-Y-Turnpike hill.
The inn was filling up with revellers by the time I barged through the small door, hacking and coughing as I did. The room fell silent for a moment, as eyes turned upon me with grave intrigue. I trudged through the small space without a word, passed Solomon at the bar who offered me drink and food.
‘Mr Cummings left your case upstairs. Said he’d be back later.’
I didn’t respond and made my way to my room quite desperately. I stripped off my clothes and climbed into bed, weary and unable to think straight. I must have slept suddenly, for my next memory is of a knock at the door and a figure shrouded in darkness entering with great clamour.
‘Inspector, are you awake?’
It was Cummings, guided by candlelight. He carried a plate of food with him, which he set upon the writing desk, before lighting the other candle to better illuminate the room.
‘What time is it?’
‘Nearly half past nine. I thought not to wake you but in your present state I decided it best you take food.’
He sat down at the writing desk as I hauled myself upward in bed. I thanked him quietly, as I rubbed my face and eyes. As with the morning, I was dank with sweat.
‘You’re obviously a man of great pride, Inspector,’ Cummings said softly. ‘I respect that. I understand your drive to carry out your work and neither I nor the Constable would question your determination. But you are unwell; your actions are rash.’
‘You lied to me about Michaelston, Cummings?’ I said coolly, with no real regard for the man’s pleasantries. ‘Why the girl’s body is there. Why it was abandoned.’
Cummings spread his arms in mock exasperation.
‘You prove my point! I told you no lies of any kind. People wanted the girl’s body in a church – All Saints seemed the best place for her.’
‘It’s been abandoned for years,’ I replied, my voice dry and croaking. ‘It was plain to see today. You told me those who live in Michaelston came here temporarily, after the girl had been killed.’
Cummings shrugged. ‘Perhaps I was not clear. Some years ago the families felt disconnected from the village proper, there were newer properties available to them.’ He paused and scoffed a little. ‘There is no great secret to it, Inspector; you can ask anyone around.’
‘You’re hiding her from everyone,’ I replied. ‘You’ve left her out there alone.’
Cummings scoffed once more. ‘For God’s sake, man, she is dead. Not just that but brutally killed! I made plain earlier that these people are simple, they have their beliefs, their fears as we all do. It’s bad enough thinking that your friend, colleague, neighbour could have done this but their Calon Farw, their foolish bedtime story scares them even more so.’ His face was turning scarlet. ‘Besides, what bloody difference does it make if the girl is out there or not, or if I didn’t make the matter plain before now? You think I have some part in this, something I wish to conceal?’
I didn’t answer him, and we sat silently for a few awkward minutes. I felt a sharp pain in my back, just below my left shoulder blade. I stretched a hand to it absently, unable to reach fully.
‘I have tried to call for a physician but have been unable to get hold of one,’ Cummings said slowly. ‘You’re unwell and you know it. What you saw, what you think you saw today—’
‘I know. I know,’ I interrupted him. ‘And I told you earlier it shall not get the better of me again.’
‘It has,’ Cummings exclaimed. ‘Solomon says he heard you raving in your sleep after you returned here earlier, soaked through to the bone. Did you even find that damned campsite?’
I shook my head. Cummings threw his hands up again.
‘There is no shame in saying you are unwell. It makes nothing less of you, but what will, what certainly will, is the manner in which you go about this enquiry. There is no great mystery here, no conspiracy.’
‘There is a murder, though, Councilman, one that cannot be explained.’
‘To you perhaps,’ Cummings proclaimed with a raised voice. ‘The body was staged, you say? Why do it, to what motive? To throw the scent, of course, to stave off the constables, to ensure this bloody band of gypsies is not followed or held under suspicion!’
He seemed to fall back in his chair and slammed his palm against the writing desk.
‘You lose yourself, sir,’ I muttered.
‘I do, I do,’ he replied, rubbing his brow.
‘Your conclusion, whilst plausible, remains unjustified. You have no real proof for your claims. Too many things cry foul and, speaking frankly, it is in your interest that another party committed this crime.’
He started at that. ‘So, you do think me covering some truth?’
‘No, merely that you have drawn a conclusion, a favourable conclusion, and now seek to fit the evidence to it.’
‘Bah!’ he snapped, standing from the chair and pacing the small space before me. ‘Then what is your opinion, what have you concluded?’
I sighed. ‘Nothing. Truly, it fits no brief, if you will.’
He made his way for the door then. ‘You should rest more,’ he mumbled.
‘I’ll need to start questioning the villagers tomorrow,’ I said plainly. ‘Vaughn may need to gather individuals, and we’ll need a place to conduct interviews. I’ll start though by visiting the mother first thing.’
He stopped at the door.
‘Catrin. She is in mourning – I doubt you will gain anything from her.’
‘Yet I shall have lost nothing when I do.’
Cummings left then without a word and I sat upon the bed in silence for quite some time. The room was cold, and I soon sought to fetch some dry clothes from my luggage case. In a loose-fitting shirt and a pair of cotton bottoms, I sat at the table and ate the small plate of meat, potatoes and gravy. I was famished and consumed the meal quickly, feeling more alive when I had.
Darkness was setting in by then and the glossy hue of the gas lamp on the road outside filled my room. I fetched Vaughn’s report and my notebook, sit
ting with the two candles close to the pages. I found a telegram tucked neatly behind the report, sent to Vaughn from Chief Inspector T. C. Brent, the very man of the Glamorgan Constabulary who had written for my services. It informed Vaughn of my arrival, and the actions I would carry out. I thought little of the telegram then.
At around half past ten, my eyes grew heavy. The words upon the pages of my notebook began to blur and my skin began to tingle and prickle with irritation and heat. My dreadful migraine was creeping back. The fever was relentless, and I cursed quietly.
The murmur and rumblings of the bar below escalated suddenly. Voices began yelling, profanities and vulgarities, insults were thrown. Glass smashed against a wall, light spilled into the darkness below my window as the front door was thrown open. Two shadows emerged, squaring off in the light of the street. One was tall and well-built, and I recognised him from his stature alone. He was one of the Davey brothers, Miller’s lads I had seen the previous day.
By now the rain had passed, and in the gloom I could see both his raised fists, and a smirk spread wide across his face. He said something to the other figure, a stocky man at least a foot shorter than he. They barked like feral dogs, goading one another. It was all very brief – the short man lunged and Davey threw two quick jabs with his left fist and floored the man with a dreadful uppercut to the jaw. The short man crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground. Davey thrust his hands into the air, stumbling backwards, drunk. A few people cheered, some called out. Solomon appeared then and waved Davey away whilst a few other figures attended to the man on the floor. One of them was Cummings, his face shaped by fury. He yelled at Davey to move on and seemed to try to revive the unconscious fellow. Davey disappeared in the direction of Mill Hill whilst the other man was hauled from the ground and dragged in the opposite direction.