“Good afternoon!” he said brightly, shifting his feet to keep the warmth from draining from his toes. Underfloor heating, he thought to himself. Soon enough, he’ll be back to underfloor heating.
“Afternoon,” the man replied glumly. “You’re that London boy? Here to buy the field.” Samuel took a moment to translate the thick accent that was muttered downwardly towards him. He bristled somewhat at being called a boy, but it was something he had rather got used when dealing with people like these. So he smiled up at the man and pulled his glove off.
“That’s me. Samuel Hughes.” He extended a hand, which the man outright ignored as he stepped back to let him inside.
Ducking under the low frame, Samuel entered a home that was decidedly nicer than its external appearance. A family home, that much was clear. Pictures and ornaments over every surface. It was warmth, thankfully, lined with enough rugs to trap in as much heat as possible. The ceilings were very low, the beams almost at a perfect level with his head, and the floorboards groaned beneath their feet.
“Mum’s through here,” the man began to walk down a narrow hallway, himself hunched in the way of a man who barely knew he was even doing it anymore. Samuel followed him through to an open country kitchen, a fire burning away, an empty teapot left on the table that looked like a huge chunk of tree had been carved out and dumped on a set of legs.
The man sat down on one side of the woman that Samuel assumed to be Eudora. Her grey hair curled around her ears, an awkwardly knitted shawl around her thin shoulders. On her other side was another son, and managing the kettle on the stove, the third. It was like meeting a mob boss. A mob boss with a set of knitting needles crammed into her bun and a set of stern, rocky eyes that could peel the skin off a man.
“Mr Hughes, I take it?” she asked in an accent not unlike her sons, only a little more clipped.
“Yes. Mrs Babbage, It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. Put a face to a name,” he said cheerily. This usually worked for him when dealing with locals, particularly unhappy locals. Smile, be cheery, take whatever they offer if they offer anything.
“Have a seat. My son’s on the tea.”
“Thank you.”
He dragged a rickety chair back over the flagstone floor and lowered himself onto it, keeping his coat wrapped around himself and his scarf neatly tucked in place. Lowering his bag to the floor, he smiled again warmly, rubbing his hands together and rather wishing that they were all sitting closer to the fireplace.
“I was surprised that you asked to meet with me today,” she adjusted her shawl, “since we are due to be signing your contract tomorrow.” She held her chin high and met his gaze strongly, but her voice wavered as she spoke and the skinnier of her sons placed a hand on her shoulder.
“I understand,” Samuel began slowly, “that the fields have been in your family for some time.” His mind was not fully made up, his visit to the family would determine him. A little last minute, but who cared?
“Since the village was built, lad, we Babbages have been here,” she told him proudly, “only not for much longer, to my shame.”
“Time’s changing mum,” the man at the stove called over his shoulder, “twill all see itself right.”
“My son, the optimist. How do you take your tea, Mr Hughes?” The teapot was filled and left to brew.
“Just milk, thank you.”
“So,” she made herself busy with cups and saucers, “why are you here today, Mr Hughes. It’s a busy day for the village.”
Bonfire Night. They were all very excited. The hotel was practically buzzing. On his way here he had seen a little boy dressed in buckled shoes and one of those bizarre, feathered hats that would have been worn in the days of James 1st. The village even struck him as a place that still built little scarecrows of old Guy Fawkes and set them ablaze too.
“I understand, Mrs Babbage. I came, thank you,” he added as he received a steaming cup, “I came because I wanted to talk to you about my plans with the land.”
“Your plans? I’ve no interest in your plans, lad. Tearing away this beautiful village field and no doubt sticking some monstrosity in its place. A supermarket, will it be? Or a petrol station or summit?”
“No petrol station, I assure you.”
She sniffed loudly and cradled her tea with long, bony fingers.
“What then?”
“Well, that rather depends.”
She peered at him over her cup.
“Please spare me the drama, Mr Hughes, and tell me what you want.” He shifted a little under her gaze, his eyes darting to the window behind her, before settling back on her stern face.
“You inherited the land from your husband?” He asked carefully.
“I did.”
“And his family has worked it all these years?”
She took a long, loud slurp of tea. “They have,” she said pointedly.
“It means a lot to the whole village, I suppose, heritage like that.”
“Heritage like that,” she told me, “is what built this country. Breaking the hearts of everyone that I have to sell. Having to sell to a busy body Londoner at that.”
“You received an offer from a local man,” Samuel checked, “down in York itself?” He had spent a few weeks in the city himself. It’s where he had met the local businessman. Johnson, his name had been. Quite the bidding war before they eventually wore him down.
“Wasn’t offering as much as you,” she said bitterly, “though he is more local. I’ve seen some of his work,” she added, “in another village a few miles west of us.” She gave a shudder, and one of her sons grinned.
“Ghastly.”
“I think so, to,” Samuel admitted to her, “never liked his work.”
“You think you’re much better?” she asked him, “you’re all the same no matter which city you’ve scuttled out from. You come to our villages, to our countryside and you tear it up and pave it over, and soon enough there’ll be no villages left, mark my words. Men like you won’t ever be welcome in places like this, Mr Hughes. No matter how well you dress or how politely you speak. This is our home, and we have to sell it, and you’re going to destroy it. I’m only glad,” her voice stern, “that my dear Harold is not here to witness this. Now,” she rose shakily from her chair, her sons watching the old matriarch with school-boy-wide eyes. “Have you something to ask of me, boy? Or can I be getting on with my day?”
When he left the cottage, he felt rather like a pumpkin that had all its guts taken out. Eudora Babbage was a rare breed of woman and had ensured that when he left her home, he was the perfect blend of guilty, ashamed and slightly nauseous. But for good benefit, as meeting her had resolved Samuel in what he had come to establish. He walked away from the rabid garden to a bench on the road and pulled the contracts from his bag, scribbling a note down in the corner, took a picture and sent it to Cynthia before deleting it. She could make the necessary changes and print off new ones. It was handy, having an assistant who could make sense of his handwriting. There weren’t many of them.
As he walked back to the hotel, thankful for not bringing the car down these muddy lanes, he caught a glimpse of the fields where the men were stacking the bonfire for tonight. Apparently, according to the hotel landlord, it was one of the main events of the year. They made parkin and bonfire toffee, mulled cider, the works. Even the local school pitched in, the children built little boxes and collected the pennies. Samuel didn’t think that people collected pennies anymore.
It had been a while since he had seen a good bonfire, or indeed proper fireworks. London was hardly the right place for them, so he hopped over the stile and walked through the fields, watching the men work. It would be a brilliant structure when it was finished, he could tell. Perhaps Cynthia and he should tag along before they were ostracized from Yorkshire entirely.
The men were picking through their pile of firewood, tossing some onto the pile and others away. One of them kicked at the bonfire and then at the dirt, throwi
ng his arms exasperatedly. They all looked around the field, and one of them pointed across the way. There were hands on hips and heads being scratched, but they carried on stacking up the pile, their voices muffled by the wind.
When his fingers got too cold, and he could feel my nose and cheeks turning red, Samuel carried on his way back, out of the field and into the small trail of woods that ran alongside the river. Our hotel was just on the other side. It had charming views, the sort of place He’d consider bringing Meena to. She’d expressed an admiration for the countryside. She’d inspired today’s visit, not that He’d likely tell her as much. Couldn’t give her the smug satisfaction. The woods were a shortcut, Cynthia had said, she’d said they were a nice view. He was quite desperate to be back inside, so he found the trail and left the field behind.
He glanced at his phone to see if Cynthia had replied, but no such luck. There was barely a trace of a signal this far out. Not that it mattered, he thought, dropping it in his bag. He would see her shortly, anyway. Just so long as she got the contracts all sorted by tomorrow morning, he didn’t feel like being any more on the wrong side of Eudora Babbage and her sons than he already was. Samuel also got the feeling that whoever was an enemy of Eudora Babbage was an enemy of the whole community.
The woodlands were as ancient as the rest of the village. The trees were crooked and draped in moss, almost like they had long scraggly beards. The branches curved with age, almost coiling their way over the path. There were no birds amongst, not this time of year, not even a robin hopping around. He could hear no rustling of anything in the ferns and foliage. It was peaceful, albeit somewhat harrowing. November, Samuel thought bitterly, tightening his scarf, was never a particularly enjoyable month in his experience.
Twigs snapped under my feet as he walked deeper into the trees, deep enough that the sun was blocked out by the patchy canopies and the smell of damp earth and rotting apples were all around. He’d gone the wrong way, drifted off from the trodden path.
The woods were dark without the sun coming through, much colder as well. It was as if the hours had slipped past and suddenly evening had drawn in. He half expected to see bats hurtling past or the moon in between the leaves. The wind made the only sound, scraping and whining through the branches. As he walked, he heard something snap behind him and peered over his shoulder.
There was nobody there.
He stuck my hands deeper into his pockets and carried on a little faster with the feelings of invisible eyes on his back. Probably just a hedgehog, he assured himself, as the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Just a hedgehog, probably disturbed from its hibernation.
He didn’t know he had gone the wrong way, wandering farther and farther from the village. Shadows grew deeper and longer and went unnoticed by him, as they followed him through the trees. They misstepped, a twig cracking beneath the boot, and Samuel turned fully, scanning where he had just walked. The shadow froze as he looked at the bushes and the trees. He looked up and muttered something about squirrels and acorns before carrying on. He had a determined walk, but his breath clouded in front of his face, quick, panting breathing.
Perhaps he knew he was lost.
His heart was lodged in his throat and picked up his pace, heading towards where he hoped north was. He couldn’t have wandered far, he tried to assure himself against his thudding heartbeat. This was a small patch of woodland not the Forest of Dean or some such place. Ridiculous, he told himself, stop being so ridiculous. You are a grown man, a successful businessman. You are not scared of sounds in the woods.
They were far enough now. He’d drifted alongside the field, hidden in the trees, and there wasn’t much more woodland before they emptied out into another farm. It was here, or nowhere.
As the shadowed figure slipped from the trees, they made a louder noise, crushing over fallen leaves and brushing against the brambles that crawled over the wood floor. Their footsteps joined in with Samuels, and his shoulders tightened, a gasp of air quickly sucked in.
He didn’t want to turn around. Didn’t want to face whoever was also in the woods, trailing after him. I should look, he told himself, I should stop and turn around and say hello to whatever hapless villager happens to be in the woods too. Fetching kindling, no doubt, or more fuel for the bonfire.
But his feet kept going, stumbling over roots hidden beneath soggy leaves and mulch. Almost there, it wouldn’t be far, almost there. As he walked faster, so his shadow. Gloved hands held something large and metal, glinting in the thin streams of light that escaped the trees.
Samuel’s hands were fists in his pockets, nails digging through his gloves into his palms. He painfully drew himself to slow down and turned abruptly, all ready to yell and the person who had scared the life out of him.
But instead, he smiled as the figure came into view and let out a rushed, breathless laugh of relief.
“Oh!”, he cried as the figure stepped closer, “It’s only you, what a fright!” His bag slipped from his shoulder as he bent over, relaxing.
The smile on his handsome face wavered as they made no reply, then slipped completely as he looked down and saw what they were clutching at. Grasping it, raising it higher and higher.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
They brought the object down, crunching sickeningly across his head. Samuel dropped onto the littered floor of leaves, fingers twitching. A strange, gargled noise came from him, blood seeping from his head and his eyes fluttered.
They lifted the object and brought it down again. And again. And again. The wet, thudding noise faded away and once more, only the wind made any noise as they stumbled back and waited.
Two
Thatcher
My phone rang just as the kettle boiled, and Mills’s number flashed up the screen. I sighed, rubbing my face and hit accept, propping the phone between my ear and shoulder as I rooted through the cupboard for my takeaway cup. If I was being dragged out this early in the morning, I was not going without coffee.
“Mills,” I answered, finding the cup and transferring the coffee powder from the mug into it, emptying the rickety old kettle.
“Morning, sir,” I could hear him moving around, keys jingling in his hands, “we’ve got a situation. Looks like a homicide.”
“Where?”
“Village a few miles north. Shall I drop by for you or text you the address?”
“Drop by. It’s on your way.”
“Right, sir. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He hung up, and I leant against the counter, glaring at the clock. Barely seven o’clock. At least it wasn’t the weekend. Homicide was awful enough without ruining my Sunday. I left my coffee on the side as I dressed and washed, snatched a slightly stale muffin and scratched the cat’s head before locking up the house. No sooner had I dropped the key in my pocket and turned my coat collar up, and Mills pulled into the drive.
He looked the way I felt. Shadows under his usually bright green eyes, a cup of coffee by his knee, shirt untucked, tie loose, black hair mussed all over his head, but he smiled wearily as I climbed in and shut the door.
“Soco’s on the scene, sir, and Sharp’s up to date. Wants us to head-in to her as soon as possible.”
I nodded. “What do you know?”
“Man was found this morning, sir,” he told me as we drove away from the city, “by a farmer in his field clearing up after last night. Victim’s not a local, apparently.”
“Bonfire night,” I muttered. Fireworks, smoke, crowds, never an easy thing to pin down one man from the bustle of all that.
“Who made the call?”
“The farmer, sir. Soon as he found the body and collected himself. The call was made about half an hour ago. Uniforms are on the scene.”
I nodded and sipped quietly at my coffee, watching the landscape change around us. The fields opened up suddenly, sparse and lined with old trees. There were lots of villages around here, one as much the same as the next. Much like the one I grew up i
n myself, old families and buried secrets. It was never easy rooting for the answer in places where they kept them hidden away long enough that they forgot they ever happened.
“Here we are,” Mills muttered. The village was built into a slope between hills, the stone buildings low-lying and identical. Even the new buildings here would be built in the same stone, same style. You wouldn’t likely get an avant-garde architect traipsing through with slabs of glass and concrete to concrete a glorified greenhouse to live in. Not without the local council getting involved.
We pulled up beside a large field, scattered remains of a bonfire across the grass, and already the area was growing crowded. Villagers stood by the edge of the field, wrapped up in large coats, watching like crows around a dead fox. Well, it was the right weather for it, I thought as I climbed out of the car. All grey and damp and cold.
Shutting the car door, I slipped past the throng of onlookers and walked to the nearest officer, Mills on my heels, and looked over his shoulder to the field. Soco were on sight, figures of white milling around like sheep.
“Sir,” Constable Smith greeted me as we neared her. She was bundled in her coat, coils of black hair curled around her face; olive skin turning red in the chill.
“Smith,” I replied, “what have we got?”
“Man’s not got any I.D. on him,” Smith led us past the tape into the field, “but he’s been identified as a Mr Samuel Hughes.”
“Not a local?”
She shook her head, “no sir. Businessman visiting from London. Apparently, he was buying some land in the local area.”
“Bet that made him popular,” I muttered.
“The farmer?” Mills asked.
“Gave his statement when we arrived,” she told us, leading us to the man in question. “This is him, Mr Goodwin.”
“Thank you, Smith.” She gave a nod and hung back, letting us approach him alone.
The farmer had his arms wrapped around himself, looking fairly gaunt. He was a big man, well-built and dressed, and he looked them over somewhat disapprovingly. His coat was well made but old. Darned at the elbows and loose threads hanging from the cuffs. Same with his boots, sturdy quality, but the leather was wearing thin, and the laces were scraggly and thin. I could make out the outline of a pipe in his breast pocket, and he stood bravely without a hat, scarf, or gloves in the biting November wind.
Unusual Remains Page 2