by Bill WENHAM
Up until now, the local ladies have had to go out of the community to receive hair and beauty treatments. They are pleased to have the salon in the village but many of them are concerned about the beautiful single woman operating it
The Silvestri men are also both concerned that Ella has openly stated that her new salon will provide hairdressing services for men, women and children. Such competition from her could quite easily put them out of business. Her arrival in the village has not pleased them at all.
Additionally, the mere fact that Ella has arrived, and intends to stay, has caused immediate concern to many of the women in the village whose spouses’ and boyfriends’ attention is already starting to wander away in her direction. Some of the men are very eager to have the gorgeous young blonde newcomer fuss over them, in her new salon or out of it!
Ella, also like the swan, appears to be completely and serenely oblivious of the upheaval that her arrival in their midst is causing and she continues to speak to and smile at everyone, male and female, in her normally friendly way. Rather than helping, her easy manner with everyone is actually making things worse.
One bad thing almost always leads to another, doesn’t it, and will we ever know exactly what awful horrors lie deep down beneath the surface of the Oceans, the Earth, or even in the minds of Men …. or Women?
Or even in the village pond, for that matter!
Chapter One
It was a beautiful warm spring day in May when two of the local boys decided to go fishing in Little Carrington’s pond, now referred to only as the ‘Duck Pond’ since cattle are no longer brought in to the market. Since it was quite large several of the older male fishermen of the Cam Fishing Club had brought some of their Cam River catches back alive with them to stock it.
They had put them all in the pond and had continued to do so for several years without fishing it at all. This would allow the relocated fish to recover, adjust to their new environment and hopefully they would breed.
Later, in the Black Bull, Ted Hamble, a regular at the pub but not a fisherman, remarked caustically, “If you wanted breeding, my lads, you should have thrown a pair of bloody rabbits in there as well.”
Several different types of fish had been put into the pond and they included pike, tench, bream, roach, dace, gudgeon and even a few trout had been brought in from other fishing locations. Someone had brought a couple of carp as well, but they were rejected by the club members since they could be really massive when they were mature.
They ended up as a gift to old Annie Siggers as food for her numerous cats.
None of the club members had fished the pond themselves for over five years but they didn’t object to the village kids spending a day or two there. After all, club or no club, as it was pointed out to them when they first started stocking it, they didn’t own the bloody duck pond, did they? It was there for everyone, including the children to enjoy.
Consequently, and no longer used to water cattle, the pond had been virtually undisturbed by everybody and everything except for the few ducks that made the pond their permanent home.
It was early morning when the two boys, Terry Miles and Ronnie Paddock, both of them eleven years old and best friends, had started fishing in the pond. The heavy rain of the previous night had stopped at about 2 A.M. and the morning sun was causing steam to rise off the damp grass.
For the first couple of hours the boys had no luck at all, hardly a single bite even. They had landed nothing at all. Then, at around ten thirty, when they were thinking of packing up and going over to the Cam to try their luck there, something big took Terry’s bait. He struck at it to set the hook and then tried to reel his catch in. It appeared to be enormous as he and Ronnie tried to pull it in together. Perhaps someone had put a carp in there after all, they thought.
After a few more minutes of tugging Terry decided that the fish, probably quite a small one really and since there was no longer any active pull on the line, had probably dived down amongst the bulrush roots where the hook had got snagged. He handed his rod to Ronnie and reached into his tackle box for his fishing knife to cut the line. There was no point dragging all the bulrushes around the pond just to get a hook back.
The boys were well aware that the ducks nested in the various clumps of rushes and may have nests in them already. The tourists always took numerous photos of the ducks and their ducklings every year.
He had just lifted the knife out of the tackle box when Ronnie yelled, “Holy shit, Terry! What the hell is that?”
Even at eleven years old, the boys already had a good handle on most of the more commonly used swear words and his outburst could be considered very mild under the circumstances.
Ronnie still had the line pulled taut, and sure enough it was definitely a clump of bulrushes that it was hooked into. Terry dropped his knife back into the box and stood up straight but when he looked where Ronnie was pointing, he couldn’t believe his eyes.
Reaching up out of the center of the bulrush clump was a pale and bare human arm, with the fingers of the hand outstretched as if seeking help. Both boys realized, with shock, that the owner of the arm was quite obviously long dead since they had been there for well over two hours themselves and no one else had even come close to the pond. Whoever it was must have been in the water for quite a while because the skin of the bare arm was almost pure white.
In shock Ronnie dropped the rod and the line went slack. The boys just stood and looked at each other, uncertain of what to do next.
Finally, Terry picked up the rod and tightened the line again, since he could see that the arm was slowly sinking back down again into the water. They needed for it to be visible if anyone was going to believe their story.
“Listen, Ron, you run over to the police station and tell the sergeant or one of the constables what we’ve hooked. I’ll stay here and make sure we don’t lose it, okay?”
Ronnie raced across the Green to the police station and returned a few minutes later, trailed by a puffing, blowing and red faced Sergeant Barnett.
“You kids hadn’t better be pulling some dumb prank on me, boys, or I’ll have your fathers tan your bloody silly hides for you,” Barnett gasped as he came up beside Terry.
Terry didn’t answer. Instead, he just pointed to the clump of reeds. Words weren’t really necessary. The arm and hand, with its splayed fingers said it all.
It took the sergeant just a single glance to verify that the boy had told him the truth. In that same moment he also realized that if this death was not by natural causes, then the resulting case would be far beyond his realm of expertise.
He had picked up his cell phone as he left his office with the boy. He used it now to contact two of his constables and told them to meet him at the duck pond immediately. He clicked off before either of them could ask him why.
He was asking himself why as well. Why was this white arm and hand sticking up out of the bulrushes like some obscene yet exotic flower?
Who did it belong to and how did it get there? No one had been reported missing, except for old Dennie Sawyer, and even he had been easily found, dead drunk and curled up in the muck in one of Albert Harriman’s stables.
So who else could it be and how long had the body been in the pond?
He would have to bring young Doc Brewer out to take a look. Dr. Allen Brewer was a fairly recent addition to the Carrington community, having taken over from old Dr. Westall when he had retired a year or so ago and had gone to live in Norfolk with his daughter and her family. Both doctors acted as interim coroners to determine the time and cause of any deaths in the community.
In this case, once the body was discovered, Bartlett had called Doc Brewer and asked him to come out to the duck pond as soon as possible. Once Doc had taken a look, the body would eventually be taken over to Cambridge where an autopsy would be performed. If the Doc believed it was anything other than accidental the whole case would be taken over by a Detective Inspector from Cambridge as well.
Sergeant Barnett was still musing as to who the dead person might be when the two young constables, Jack Farrow and Colin Fordham, showed up. Today was a day off for Tommy Cairns, the third member if their tiny police force. Between them, on a shift basis, the three of them patrolled the two villages at night.
Both of them stood there with their mouths hanging open. Neither of them had seen anything like this before and Fordham was only three months out of the police college.
Barnett rubbed his chin for a moment and then turned to Fordham.
“Colin, just make a note of these two boys names, addresses and phone numbers. Then take the kids back to the station and get a statement from each of them, independently, as well and send them both home.”
Fordham told the two boys to gather up their fishing gear, with the exception of Terry’s rod and line. That was still needed for the time being and it would be returned to him later, the boy was told. Constable Farrow relieved the boy of the rod and continued to keep the line taut.
Fordham then took both of the boys back with him to the police station to take their statements.
When they were gone, the sergeant turned to Farrow.
“Well, Jack, whoever it is, I guess he or she has been in there long enough and we’d better try to get the body out, right?” he said. “I’ve given Doc Brewer a call and I’ve let him know what’s going on here.”
Farrow nodded.
Although there was a long length of line out which prevented the body from sinking again, the bulrushes it was entangled in were actually right at the edge of the pond, but further around to their right. The two policemen walked around the edge of the pond, with Farrow winding in the line as they went. Because the boys always wanted to land whatever they hooked, the line they used was much heavier than the regular fishermen would consider to be sporting.
When they reached the bulrush clump, Farrow handed the rod to the sergeant. Then he took off his uniform jacket, dropped it on the grass, removed his boots and socks and rolled up his pant legs to his knees.
He grinned at Barnett.
“I know you don’t want to actually order me to do this, Sarge, so I’m offering,” he said.
Barnett just snorted derisively. “With only the two of us here, and since I outrank you anyway, that wasn’t much of a bloody offer or decision for you to make, now, was it?”
Without replying, Farrow stepped gingerly into the pond and immediately sank into the slimy ooze of the pond bottom. He cursed as the water came straight up to his thighs.
“Come on, man, get on with it,” the sergeant urged him from the comfort and safety of the bank. Farrow scowled at him and waded through the bulrushes until he could reach the up-thrust hand. He shuddered involuntarily as he prepared to take a grip on it. He was trying to be outwardly nonchalant but the truth of it was that he’d never even touched a dead body before. He’d seen them but had never actually touched one.
He took a deep breath and grasped the cold white hand. As soon as he touched it he realized that it was the hand of a woman and he dreaded what he might have to look at next.
With a firm grip on the cold hand Farrow walked further out into the pond. He was soaked now anyway so what did it matter if he got a bit wetter. He felt that the owner of the body was owed as dignified retrieval as was possible.
As he looked back at the sergeant he saw that Mary Marsden, their young office typist and general dogsbody, had arrived on the scene with some blankets. They were intended for use in their one small cell. He also saw Doc Brewer running across the grass towards them.
As Farrow moved further out into the pond, holding the corpse’s hand firmly, he pulled on it slightly and felt the bulrush roots release their hold on the body. Without looking down at it, he pulled it free and towed it back to the bank of the pond by the one hand.
As the sergeant dropped the fishing rod and reached down for the hand, Farrow now realized the body was floating face down. He reached deep down into the water for the other hand, located it and passed it up to Doc Brewer.
By now, Mary had spread one of the blankets out on the grass as close to the pond as possible. The sergeant and Doc Brewer were standing on it.
With each of them grasping a hand apiece, Farrow now reached down deep again into the water to take hold of the body’s ankles. As he did so, the fabric of the body’s dress brushed against his hand, confirming to him that it was a woman.
“I’ve got the ankles, whenever you’re ready,” he said. The sergeant and Doc Brewer lifted the upper torso out of the water as Farrow moved forward with the legs. A moment or two later, the woman’s body was laying, face down, on the blanket.
As Farrow climbed back out of the pond, Mary handed him another one of the blankets which he wrapped tightly around himself. He was soaked from head to foot through reaching down into the water to grasp the dead woman’s ankles. Doc Brewer was removing the fish hook which was caught in the woman’s left bicep and had caused the arm to rise when the boy had pulled on the line. The sergeant patted Farrow on the back.
“Well done, Jack. That couldn’t have been easy for you,” he said.
“You’ve got that bloody right, Sarge. It wasn’t.” Farrow replied tersely.
The two policemen and Mary all looked down as Doc Brewer carefully turned the body over, face up, on the blanket.
“Oh, my God - No!” Mary gasped as she realized who the dead woman was and what had been done to her. Then her knees buckled under her and she fell flat on her face on the grass in a dead faint.
Chapter Two
Andy and Roberta Rudge had been at loggerheads with each other for several years now. They could often be heard bitterly arguing by anyone passing their cottage and the subject of their battles was always the same. It was because of Andy’s roving eye.
The arguments had escalated ever since Ella Thomas had arrived in the village and Andy had gone from his customary three or four haircuts a year to one every two weeks. The reason was obvious to practically everyone in the village, not only to Roberta.
She and Andy had been married for just under fifteen years and their fifteen year old daughter was the obvious reason for their marriage. Roberta had been a very pregnant bride and they were married because they had to be, not because they loved each other - quite the opposite actually.
Roberta’s angry scream of “Where the Hell are you, Andy, you sneaky little bastard?” didn’t quite have the same lyricism to it somehow as Shakespeare’s “Wherefore art thou, Romeo?”
Her father was a big, heavy and rough featured local farmer who had promised that he would do Andy some very, very grievous harm if he didn’t do the right thing and marry his daughter. Andy was not a big man, certainly no match for Roberta’s father, who could quite easily carry out his threat. Andy was just five foot nine, with dark hair and almost black eyes. He sported a thin moustache which he felt gave him a somewhat debonair look and he was well known in both villages as ‘Randy Andy’.
His wife, Roberta, had been mortified for years by the deceitful, amorous and embarrassing antics of her wayward husband. But their daughter had suffered even more from some of the other school children.
Now, as a fifteen year old, she was being subjected to cruel and suggestive comments by some of the older children, such as, “So, Alice, has that randy dandy daddy of yours taken you off to any trips to his private little Wonderland yet?”
Despite his reputation, many of the young women in the two villages thought that, even at forty, Andy Rudge was a very good looking man. And he was also a very available one, despite being married.
Roberta was a quite heavy and rather plain looking woman and Andy hadn’t been attracted to her at all when he had got her pregnant. She was merely available at the time.
She had gone with him willingly and did what he had demanded, seeking love and affection from him, but she received neither. Roberta stayed with him now for the sake of Alice, their daughter, but she detested him and wouldn’t let him near her. She di
dn’t want him but didn’t want anyone else to have him either, especially the new blonde floozy with the beauty salon. If he left her, Roberta knew that his monetary support would go with him.
But as far as Andy was concerned, he paid the bills and maintained the cottage and since she didn’t want him and he didn’t want her, he was free to look elsewhere if he wished. Although that was his view on their marital situation, it certain wasn’t Roberta’s.
She would kill him herself before she would allow him to desert her and Alice, she vowed silently.
Elsewhere in Little Carrington, someone else was having second thoughts about her current amorous and dangerous association with Andy Rudge as well, but she knew that he would be absolutely furious if she broke it off with him. She had already experienced some examples of his quick and violent temper and had carried the bruises he had caused, covered up by heavy makeup, around on her face for several days.
She also realized that she was only one of many in the area who had experienced Andy Rudge’s fury over the years. Maybe they should form some kind of a club, she thought with a grim smile. Andy Rudge’s Battered Bitches had a nice ring to it.
As she thought more along these lines, she came up with a much better name. She would call it O.R.A.R.A. and she knew she would have no difficulty garnering members for it.
‘Our Revenge Against Randy Andy’ had a much better ring to it!
If anyone was going to be beaten up in future, Andy Rudge would be at the very top of their list. She smiled as she reached for a pen and paper to start to make a list of potential members. There would certainly be no shortage of names.
The nuns of St. Mary, Martyr, sent their van over to take the body from the duck pond back to the convent. They also maintained a small morgue and a funeral chapel there for those who died in the area. Abe Foster, the undertaker, had his establishment conveniently nearby. The morgue was intended for deaths by natural causes, but as Doc Brewer had determined as soon as he had turned the body over, that certainly wasn’t the case with the woman from the pond.