A Shroud of Leaves

by Rebecca Alexander

  She put her hands out to the smoky stove. ‘I can’t get warm today.’

  ‘That’s the problem with March – if it’s sunny, it’s cold,’ Felix observed. He shrugged his jacket around his shoulders.

  ‘I’m just tired.’ She checked her messages on her phone now she had a signal. There was nothing from Nick or Yana. ‘The burial in the lawn turned out to be a canvas bag filled with old bones. Not Lara, probably not Edwin Masters either. So it’s most likely the Bronze Age burial.’ She grinned. ‘Do you know how brilliant that is?’

  ‘For an archaeologist, yes. For a crime investigator, no.’

  ‘At least it’s clarified the situation. People can concentrate on River’s murder again.’ She stretched her hands out to the log burner, which was just starting to flare up. ‘My hands are frozen. I hardly ever feel the cold, normally.’

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘I spent of lot of my childhood in Africa. Really hot summers. My father was a diplomat.’

  ‘Oh.’ She studied him. There was something a little different about Felix; she had always liked his face. His skin was tanned, even in the winter, and his green eyes stood out against it. His dark hair, although ruthlessly brushed back, had a wild curl in it. ‘What part of Africa?’

  ‘Côte d’Ivoire,’ he said, picking up the menu. ‘My mother was born in Yamoussoukro. They were a prominent cocoa-bean farming family.’ He looked up at her. ‘My father was a French speaker but he couldn’t be more English. The only vaguely imaginative thing he did was marry a mixed-race African woman, who was about twice as intelligent as he was.’

  ‘Were they happy?’

  ‘They never stopped loving each other, but no, they weren’t happy. My father’s life was his work. My mother’s life was me, her art, her humanitarian work, her friends and the family back in Côte d’Ivoire. She missed Africa terribly. She moved back there for the last fifteen years of her life.’

  Sage picked up the menu but thought about Nick. They never stopped loving each other, but no, they weren’t happy. With an uncomfortable jolt, she realised that she was more like Felix’s father than mother. It was she who was prioritising work over Max and Nick.

  ‘Are you OK? You look pale,’ he said.

  ‘I just need to eat something warm,’ she said. ‘A bowl of their chilli would be good.’

  Felix went up to the bar to order. She checked her phone again, but no messages. She started typing a message to Nick. I love you. Hope you’re having a good day, call you later xx. She knew he would call back, and she wasn’t sure she could talk to him yet.

  Felix sat back down and his eyes stared into hers for a long moment. ‘It’s a stressful case. Missing girls, dead bodies.’

  ‘Seeing River’s body did make me think back to Nick being attacked,’ she said. She could feel the usual jumble of feelings that gathered when she talked about Nick. ‘It’s like I’m still terrified he will die, and put me through that again. And angry, really angry that he made me feel that way, that he made me love him so much.’ She blindly noticed someone had brought warm drinks and cupped her hands around hers. ‘I didn’t order coffee,’ she said.

  ‘I did,’ he said, watching her. The coffee was milky, sweet and had a head of froth. ‘I thought you could do with the sugar.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I could try this EMDR treatment. Maybe Nick will give me more time. She sipped her drink and thought back to the shambling, broken Chorleigh. She’d looked into his bloodshot eyes and just seen confusion and fear for his dog. She leaned towards Felix, keeping her voice down. ‘Chorleigh just doesn’t come across as a murderer.’

  Felix leaned back in the chair. ‘I’ve met dozens, probably hundreds of people who have murdered, maimed and kidnapped people – even killed children – who are as genial and friendly as everyone else.’ He looked up as a woman with two plates came over and placed them in front of him and Sage. ‘Thank you.’ He waited until she had moved out of earshot. ‘We were very suspicious of Chorleigh in 1992. He wouldn’t say anything to exculpate himself, just mumbled “no comment” on the advice of an overbearing solicitor and an even more overbearing father. They made him look guilty.’

  ‘How could anyone speak to hundreds of murderers?’ Sage asked.

  ‘It’s the type of cases I investigate for the WHO,’ Felix explained. ‘In 2011, a farmer called Jean-Pierre Ndayizeye went missing in Burundi. Half the village turned out to talk to the World Health Organization task force – me included – and told us how worried they were. He was nineteen, the sole breadwinner for his widowed mother and his younger siblings.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  ‘What was left of him was in an old fridge on the outskirts of Bujumbura, the capital.’ He pushed his plate away. ‘We already knew that. I had to listen to the villagers tell me, time after time, that they knew nothing about it. “We loved that boy”, but always in the past tense. They already knew he was dead.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Jean-Pierre was born albino. He was worth more than three or four years’ harvests to the villagers. He was butchered for body parts, sold, and the rest left to rot.’ He looked at his hands. ‘The local people, although ostensibly mostly Christians, believe in witchcraft. If they don’t believe in magic directly, they do believe in profit. He had been targeted before. When he was eight, he was grabbed by some men in a truck. They only took his right hand that time.’

  ‘It sounds mediaeval. He must have been terrified.’ She flashed back to the moment Elliott came at her holding a knife towards her pregnant belly. She squeezed her hands together under the table and tried to control her breathing.

  ‘I wanted to help the investigation,’ he went on. ‘I looked for deception markers, tells. I listened to the weeping neighbours, the distraught mother, joined the candlelit vigil they held at the church where they sang all night.’

  ‘And some of them knew?’

  He looked up. ‘They all knew. Even his mother, who was rewarded with eight thousand US dollars and a new heifer.’

  She was shocked. ‘You knew they were lying?’

  ‘We did, but when we saw her grief we did wonder if we’d got it all wrong.’ He grimaced. ‘We hadn’t. Jean-Pierre had been dragged from her own kitchen.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Witchcraft practitioners in Malawi, Tanzania, Burundi and Mozambique use the body parts to do prosperity spells. But albinos are also raped by people who believe it will cure their HIV, and some cultures believe they have golden bones.’

  It sounded far-fetched, but Felix’s expression was bleak. ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘So when Alistair Chorleigh tells you he didn’t do anything, hugging his dog with tears in his eyes, remember he is facing life imprisonment if he’s convicted.’

  ‘Don’t believe anyone. Got it.’ She didn’t fancy the last few sips of her cooling coffee.

  ‘On the other hand, he’s not the only suspect.’

  ‘There’s the family, of course. I met the stepfather.’

  Felix put his fork down. ‘There’s always the family. River lived with her mother and stepdad in Southampton, and his daughter, Melissa. It must have been tense with two unrelated teenagers. You could imagine an overstressed parent losing it, especially as they also have a six-year-old.’

  ‘They haven’t ruled out Melissa’s biological mother and her partner, either. Apparently they thought Owen Sloane and his wife unfairly favoured River over Melissa. And there’s her boyfriend, Jake, I met him as well. He has a car, he could have moved the body. It does seem like a frenzied, emotional attack, doesn’t it?’

  Felix nodded. ‘It does look very personal. Maybe she fell out with Jake and he lost his temper.’

  ‘There was a previous boyfriend too, Ryan something. Both of them had size ten or eleven boots, they could have left the footprints at the house.’

  Felix dragged a folder out from his shabby briefcase and consulted his notes. ‘Ryan Wellans. I do know something about him. I’ve been res
earching local animal welfare groups.’

  ‘That River was interested in?’

  He swiped his phone screen. ‘She was actively protesting about animal testing. This is security footage from a medical research laboratory in Cambridge recorded last year.’ The short clip showed a young girl banging on the doors with a banner, shouting. Sage was shocked to see River alive, energetic, emotional.

  ‘God.’ She looked up at him. ‘Can I play it again?’

  He handed it to her and she watched it a second time, then a third, this time concentrating on the faces behind the girl. ‘Owen Sloane is with her.’

  ‘Is he? I didn’t see that.’

  Sage paused the clip and blew up the image. ‘I need to see this on a bigger screen. But that image reminds me of Badger, Lara’s boyfriend. See, without the beard, and a lot slimmer and younger. Have you got the photograph Lara took?’

  Felix pulled a battered tablet from his bag, which he booted up as he explained. ‘I think the key to this case is why they chose to bury the body in Alistair Chorleigh’s garden. Someone who knew about Lara Black chose to set Chorleigh up, so it’s more likely to be a local person, and someone who was old enough to remember the case.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Her mind skittered back to the terrible grief on Sloane’s face at the morgue. Maybe it was guilt she was seeing.

  ‘Right,’ Felix said. ‘There’s the tape, that’s him. That’s Owen Sloane, protesting about animal experimentation.’

  They looked at each other. ‘If he’s Badger, or Jimmy, he worked for the Chorleighs,’ Sage said. ‘He knew about the stable and the leaves getting caught down the side wall.’

  ‘But why would he kill River? There’s no evidence that he’s been anything but a loving stepfather and even shared some of her interests.’ He swiped the tablet again. ‘This is what I wanted to show you.’

  It was a newspaper cover, a picture on the front page. He could zoom into various parts of the picture. ‘Here, look at this.’

  A headline came up: ‘Snow White and the Huntsmen’ with a close-up of Lara shouting at the person taking the picture. Another picture in the article was of half a dozen people on horseback on the drive of Chorleigh House.

  Felix tapped and swiped the tablet. ‘This was in a local journal, The Magical Forest. It was written by someone calling himself Herne and relating the strategies the hunt supporters would use to protect themselves. The author called on local witches and warlocks to defend the forest and its creatures. He declared himself the forest’s satanist guardian.’

  ‘There are crazies everywhere,’ Sage said. ‘Definitely. But there’s more to it.’

  ‘Animal lover takes on magistrate’. The article focused on the efforts of George Chorleigh to limit access to the forest for known agitators and criminals. The author was the same writer, Herne. ‘He accuses Chorleigh senior of persecuting certain hunt saboteurs. He stops short of naming Lara but it’s implied in the picture.’

  She sat back. ‘So you’re going to follow up this Herne person. I wonder if the police can track him down?’

  ‘I’ve done a bit of research already and DCI Lenham has arranged for me to visit.’ He reached into his pocket for his wallet. ‘I’ll get this. I’m going to meet up with this Herne tomorrow morning. Would you like to come along?’

  This was getting interesting. ‘I’m going to ask the police to follow up any aliases Owen Sloane has had, then I’d love to come. Not too early, though? I’d like to spend some time with the baby. I’ll pick you up from the hotel around eleven.’

  22

  Letter from R. Conway to Edwin Masters, 6th July 1913

  My dear Edwin,

  Your letter came as a wonderful surprise. As you know, the long vac has already started. I was quite at a loss as to what to do next – the oppressive atmosphere of the empty colleges is weighing on me. I shall, with your approval, travel down to Dorset to visit a friend there, stopping for three nights at Chorleigh House upon the way. I shall arrive on the 10th July. I enclose a charming legend, courtesy of Annie Wilde’s A History of Haunted Hampshire for your perusal. I believe it relates to your dig.

  Hand-typed page inscribed: copied for Prof Conway

  ‘The Black Hell-hound held in much awe in Devonshire has its cousin in the Black Shug of the village of Twyford, near Winchester. It is believed that this creature only appears from its grave, in Hound Butt near the village of Fairfield in the New Forest. The great creature, reputed to be as large as a shire horse and able to jump a house in a single bound, is responsible for hunting deer and ponies that graze within the forest. They are found utterly spent, having been run and gashed about their necks and shoulders by the jaws of the great beast, which plays with them like a giant cat with mice. The barrow concerned is one of two to be found on the land of a farm adjoining the forest, which has exceptionally fine stonework revealed. The farmer, a Mr Bartholomew Chiverton of Blazeden Farm, when asked if he had ever dug about the tumuli, said ‘he dursn’t’, for it would disturb the creature and bring his family bad luck. Some years ago a Rev. Wm. Walker was holidaying in the New Forest with his two sisters, when they were roused from their slumbers by the howling of the beast, which seemed to be running around the cottage they had rented for the summer. In the morning giant footprints could be seen in soft ground under the ladies’ bedchamber window, and deep scratches up the limed walls. A local gamekeeper could not explain the marks, which extended up to the window frame itself, some eleven feet from the ground.’

  Edwin Masters’ journal entry, 8th July 1913

  Trust my old mentor to find me a ghost story, and one much better than I might contrive myself. Molly will be interested, I am sure, even if her sleep is disturbed by tales of monsters. It is a curious coincidence, however, that within the barrow named after a giant hound we do find one, though not as big as a horse. It is the largest I have ever seen; it must have been a magnificent beast, quite a yard high at the shoulder.

  I have some misgivings about giving the tale to Molly, however, as that sweet creature seems somewhat distant and I wonder if I have offended her. I am in the habit of treating her as if she were my own sister (had I had one) and I noticed that she has become shy around me. Peter teased me a little, for I had not seen it myself. My mother says I am like my father, a cool creature who lives in my thoughts. Mr Chorleigh seems unimpressed by my lack of family or prospects, barely addressing more than a few words to me, then, quite by accident, I seemed to win him over. Mr Chorleigh asked me who my people were, at dinner. I dread these questions, but I cautiously said my father was a chaplain in the 3rd Division at Stormberg, in the Boer campaign. He warmed to me considerably. He fought at Magersfontein under Lieutenant General Lord Methuen and expounded at length about the general inferiority of the Boers, the blacks, and any troops but his own. I didn’t tell him that my father abhorred all violence and war, and went to relieve suffering wherever he felt called. When Mr Chorleigh found out he had died of an infected wound received at the battle he seemed quite avuncular. He was scathing of my mother allowing me to attend a grammar school but approved of my full scholarship to Oxford. When Peter called across the table that I had achieved first-class honours for my degree there was a round of applause from the family.

  I was embarrassed, I fear my face was flaming, but Molly kept up her questions about the dig throughout dinner and I tried to answer as many as I could. She is quite as intelligent as her brother and I asked if she had given more thought to going to university. Mr Chorleigh laughed off the idea, saying she would soon be busy with her wedding. I asked her about this but she went quite as red as I had, and said her father was speaking in general, not about anyone in particular.

  ‘Besides,’ she said to me, under the cover of the general conversation, ‘who would want someone like me when they could have Trixie or Hilda? Father says no one wants a clever wife.’

  ‘I would only want a clever wife,’ I answered, truthfully. ‘And I know plenty of chaps who would feel
the same.’

  She picked at her food, a piece of fresh-caught sea bass I had seen delivered by bicycle that afternoon. ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I qualified my answer. ‘If I ever get married, that is. I can’t imagine it.’

  Again I was aware of Mr Chorleigh listening and attended to my food. Molly, too, seemed conscious and changed the subject to the dig.

  ‘How long ago were the barrows actually made?’ Mrs Chorleigh asked, glancing over the table.

  ‘Something like 1800 BC until about 1200 BC,’ I said. ‘Or so we believe, if they are Bronze Age. We think they are the remains of two oval burial mounds. The pottery suggests the date.’

  Peter’s mother leaned forward, her eyes shining. They were very much like Peter’s, who has beautiful flecks of brown in his blue eyes. ‘How wonderful. Are they definitely both barrows, then? One is just a heap of stones half covered in grass. Molly has been telling me about your excavations.’

  ‘Indeed, I think it was originally a barrow,’ I affirmed. ‘Someone has dug it out leaving just a few stones and the incline of half the oval. Perhaps it was flattened to grow crops or turn a plough around. But the professor will tell us more. You will like to meet him, I’m sure, Molly. He makes history so interesting.’

  ‘I should love to help you tomorrow,’ she said. ‘But I have promised to read to my mother in the afternoon.’

  Mr Chorleigh glanced over at his wife. ‘Perhaps your mother could forego your companionship,’ he said. ‘While the good weather holds.’ When she agreed I looked down at my plate.

  Of course, Molly would be welcome to help again. But part of me would have preferred the companionship of Peter alone.

  23

  Sunday 24th March, this year, the New Forest

  Sage had reported back her observation that Badger and Owen Sloane might be one and the same person. Lenham told her that Sloane’s car didn’t match the tyre track outside the house but one of his work vans had the same brand. She promised to email all the evidence to him and, meanwhile, she would help Felix interview Herne, the author of the articles that mentioned Lara.