“How may I help you, Sergeant Graves?” Bowman’s moustache twitched almost comically.
“We have a case,” Graves replied. “The commissioner has entrusted me with the details.”
Bowman was busy rearranging the furniture. The smaller chair was dragged before the desk that Graves might sit. The inspector draped his jacket more decorously on the back of his chair and sat opposite him, his elbows on the desk, picking nervously at his fingers.
“And what are they?”
Graves leaned forward, eager to impart the particulars of the case. “We are to journey to a village called Larton, east of Reading, where a man has been found hanged.”
Bowman frowned. “Reading?”
Graves nodded. “One Fletcher Cousins, a gang master at a cherry orchard. There are suspicious circumstances, of course.”
Bowman stood and turned to the window. Gazing across the river, he could see it was to be another hot day. Already, the heat was rippling off the wharves and builders’ yards on the south bank. A smudge of smoke rose from a sawmill, lending a sickly, orange halo to the morning sun. Below him, the Victoria Embankment basked in the heat. Passersby paused to fan themselves with the brims of their hats or to rest against the river wall. A dog lay in the shade of a tree, lazily flicking his tail.
“What suspicious circumstances?” Bowman asked, slowly, his habitual frown cutting deep on his forehead. If truth be told, the throbbing at his temples had returned and he found the glare of the sun almost too much to bear. He fought the urge to fling the shutters across the windows once more.
“We are to learn more upon our arrival,” Graves beamed, enigmatically. “The lord of the manor wants the thing wrapped up quick. The man was found on his land and there is much talk amongst the village which he cannot abide.”
“That is his sole reason for calling Scotland Yard?”
Graves nodded. “That, and the fact that he dines with the commissioner at the Trafalgar Club on a regular basis.” Bowman rolled his eyes. “They have been friends since Jaipur.”
“So we are to go as a favour.” Bowman shook his head.
“I suspect this is just what you need, George.”
Bowman was brought up short by the use of his Christian name. Looking down at Graves, he saw the sergeant’s face was clouded with concern. Bowman swallowed, unsure how to respond.
“It might do you good to get out of London, sir,” Graves added.
Bowman’s eyes turned to the map on the wall opposite. It spanned almost the room’s entire length and showed, in detail, every road and alley, every wharf and bridge the city afforded. Several million lives were contained within its limits and perhaps, Bowman mused, a million crimes. He had once thought the map a useful device. Now, he thought as he let his eyes wander through its streets and lanes, it was a tyranny.
“In what way?” Bowman asked by way of a challenge. He noticed Graves shift awkwardly in his seat and immediately felt sorry for him.
“I just thought,” Graves stammered, “that the clean air would do you good.”
Bowman gnawed at his lip for a moment, then swung himself into his chair.
“Why did the commissioner not call me in to tell me of the case himself?”
Graves looked uncomfortable. “Perhaps he was busy, sir.”
Bowman nodded. He understood. The commissioner was intent upon sending him as far away from Scotland Yard as possible. Out of sight, out of mind.
“Perhaps you’re right, Graves,” Bowman said with something approaching a smile. “It would be good to leave the stench of London behind us.” The inspector’s eyes swung across the map then, guiltily, to the bureau beneath. He snapped his head back in time to notice that Sergeant Graves had followed his gaze. He had plainly noticed that Bowman’s decanter of brandy had disappeared from the tabletop. Ostensibly held for the use of visitors in need of fortification, Graves had noticed the level of brandy had been falling quicker of late. He saw now that the decanter had been locked away, and took it as an indication that his superior did not wish it to be known just how much was left in the bottle. Graves was struck with a sudden understanding. He had clearly interrupted Bowman at his drinking. No wonder the inspector had locked the door.
“Perhaps,” Graves continued, his voice thick with meaning, “it would be best to leave much behind us.”
Bowman swallowed again under the sergeant’s gaze and cleared his throat. “I am puzzled, Graves,” he began. “Just what can be so suspicious in a man hanging himself from a tree? Distressing though it is, it is a fact that many a man will take his own life in the course of a year, particularly in the country where life is harsh.” He frowned. “Is there evidence of foul play in the matter?”
“We are to discover all upon our arrival,” Graves said simply, his hands spreading wide.
The sizeable village of Larton had grown up within the confines of the Thames Valley, some thirty miles to the west of London. The river meandered lazily through the village, resting in quiet pools before seeing fit to join the race to the city. Its banks of reeds and rushes were home to kingfishers and dragonflies, and the patient observer might see water rats and voles scurrying for shelter. An ornate iron bridge raised through public subscription spanned its width, a tollbooth standing sentinel on its north side. Swifts and kites screamed in the cloudless skies, wheeling on the warm eddies that rose from the parched fields. The ground climbed on either side of the river, with Larton laying on its south bank, a ribbon of a road connecting its three constituent parts; Larton Village, Larton Rise and Larton Dean. In the centre of the village stood All Saints Church. One of three churches in Larton, its brick and flint walls stood on a sight where locals had worshipped since the Norman Invasion. The well-tended graveyard was final home to many a distinguished local family, but those more distinguished were laid beneath the flagstones in the church itself. Ornate memorials adorned the walls proclaiming their names to the Sunday congregations; the Burwells, Hedleys and Melvilles; all names well known in the village. An old wooden door on an outside wall stood locked against trespassers. Entry to the crypt beneath had been denied for decades. The church’s proximity to the river had rendered the crypt unsafe over previous years and the decision had been taken to abandon it all together.
The High Street was a dusty track, home to a butcher, a general provisions store, several public houses and a hotel. After several hundred yards, the road snaked through open land with the Thames on its right. This tract of marshy common land, bisected by a causeway, divided the Village from Larton Rise. More than that, it marked a division between the people of Larton. Those in the Village felt superior to those in the Rise, the former populated by smart and attractive dwellings, the latter by worker’s cottages and scrubby homesteads. The visitor could spot an inhabitant of the Rise with ease. Typically, he would be found in his work clothes and tatty hat, on his way to work the fields. The women could be seen in their aprons and mob caps, their only dress washed and hanging on the line to dry, their several children screaming to be fed or running, shoeless and feral, in the dusty streets. The residents of Larton Village were more likely to be found in their smarter clothes, catching the train to the nearby towns of a morning to practise the dark arts of accountancy. Their children were led in lines every morning to School Lane, there to be tutored and disciplined, made ready for a life amongst the professional classes. The open land between them was more than a geographical divide, it served to mark a border between them as stark as that between two distinct countries, as different in culture and aspiration as could be thought possible. Beyond the Rise and its scrappy cottages lay Larton Dean. From its vantage on the hill, Larton Dean delighted in looking down on everyone else. From its highest peak, the Thames could be seen, glistening in the sun. The trees of Chalk Wood hid much of the Rise and the Village from view, so it was possible to believe that Larton Dean stood aloof from the world or, in particular, from its neighbours. Even the houses had a haughty air. Here lived the bankers and s
peculators who had made their fortunes and yearned to breathe the country air without wishing to mix with those who were born to it. Their smart children were taught at home by fussy governesses who read them Shakespeare and Milton. Their wives commanded footmen and gardeners, cooks and maids of all work. Their grand houses were run with a fastidiousness borne of snobbery. Each household fought to outdo the other and much gossip was expended in the comparison of gardens, outlook and general appearance. If Larton was not one village but three, then Larton Dean was subdivided still further. To live near Trevitt’s farm was considered to be near contempt. To have a house with a view across the valley, at the uppermost height of the hill, was considered the pinnacle of achievement. And so Larton was a village where each constituent was in a constant state of war with the other, where every citizen was regarded with suspicion and every resident was weighed in the balance of where in the village they lived and how they earned their living.
In the midst of it all stood Larton Manor. With its immaculate, manicured lawns and soaring towers it seemed a building out of time, an anachronism of impressive gravel paths, trimmed hedges and Tudor windows. It sprawled over several acres of well-kept grounds incorporating a stable block, sweeping land laid to pasture and, at its perimeter, a boathouse giving out onto a tributary of the Thames itself. It occupied the space as if by ancient rite, as much as the inhabitants that dwelt within its forbidding walls. The Melvilles had owned much of Larton for centuries. From the lowest reaches of the Village to Trevitt’s farm in the Dean, Lord Melville and his family kept a jealous hold on the pasture, marshland and orchards of the valley, offering acres out for rent to tenant farmers.
Detective Inspector George Bowman stared forlornly from the carriage window at the unfolding countryside before him. His mouth drying in the heat, he had slipped off his jacket and folded it carefully on the seat next to him, his hat perched on top. The journey from Scotland Yard had been without incident, although he was concerned at the speed with which Graves had led him from his office to a waiting hansom cab and from there to Belsize Crescent to pack a suitcase of clothes. Bowman had demanded that the sergeant wait outside rather than be witness to the chaos of his rooms and had stuffed his case with such shirts as he could find. From there he had been spirited to Paddington Station. It smacked of a carefully planned intervention. A short wait later, and Bowman was bundled aboard the next train to Reading via Brunel’s Great Western Railway. Famed as the ‘Holiday Line’, it proceeded to the West Country, Devon and Somerset. The great engine, painted in a sober Brunswick Green, had puffed cheerfully through Slough and Windsor, pausing briefly to allow knots of holidaymakers to board its distinctive chocolate and cream coaches. They did so with great excitement, the children clambering over the seats to their parents’ amusement and Bowman’s disdain. More than once Bowman had winced as the children’s excited cries rang through the carriages, pressing his fingers to his throbbing temples for relief.
All the while, Sergeant Graves sat in the seat opposite him, his eyes alight at the displays of childish exuberance around him. He had delighted in winking and smiling at the children, even going so far as to ruffle the hair of a small, clearly delighted boy clutching a toy boat in his chubby fingers. Engaging him in conversation, Graves had chuckled and twinkled like a favourite uncle at the boy’s responses, then settled back in his seat to gaze with Bowman at the changing landscape beyond the glass. Some three miles from Southall, the horizon had revealed itself beyond the skyline of gasworks, slums and tenements. Farms replaced factories and a great tapestry of fields spread to a horizon dotted with trees. Copses sprang up to give shade to farm workers and their horses, taking lunch on fallen logs and stretching their sore limbs to ease them. The sun glanced at intervals through the window, and Graves noticed Bowman wincing in the glare. As they slowed at Langley Marsh, the young sergeant leaned forward in his seat, eager to pose a question to which he doubted he would be furnished an answer.
“What was the upshot of your meeting with the commissioner, sir?”
Bowman’s brow furrowed as he contemplated his response. For a moment he considered feigning not having heard the question, but Graves’ enquiring gaze was impossible to ignore. Commissioner Bradford had been pleased enough with Bowman’s conduct during the investigation at St. Saviour’s Dock, though he had raised questions as to the inspector’s mental capacity. Bowman had his suspicions that Chief Inspector Callaghan had reported back none too favourably with regard to Bowman’s erratic behaviour. The commissioner had sighed as he ran his fingers through his hair.
“Bowman,” he had begun, “you place me in a difficult position.” The commissioner had walked to gaze out of his office window at the streets below, his one remaining hand flexing in the small of his back as he spoke. “The Press have been asking questions concerning the ease with which the Kaiser was able to operate in Bermondsey.” Bowman nodded. He had eventually apprehended the Kaiser on the banks of the River Thames, but too late to prevent the deaths of many innocent victims. “This has led to a wider discussion amongst our more…” the commissioner had searched for the word, “Spirited newspapers, concerning the number of inspectors at our disposal.” Bradford had harrumphed as he turned to face the inspector. “A matter for the Home Office, of course, but I cannot be seen to be laying off inspectors of whose conduct I do not entirely approve.” He had smoothed the empty sleeve of his jacket where it lay pinned against his chest. “In short, Inspector Bowman, I need numbers.”
“I understand, sir,” Bowman had replied, with something approaching gratitude.
“Make no mistake, if it were not for that, you would be out on your ear and back to Colney Hatch.” Bowman had winced at the mention of the asylum where he had, only the year before, spent seven months. “I have been scrutinising the details of your previous cases.” The commissioner had picked up a sheaf of papers from the desk and waved them before him. He then leant in closer to the inspector, his voice low. “I do not deny, George, that you are an asset to the Yard.” Bowman blinked at the use of his Christian name. It seemed that, of late, too many people had been all too quick to employ it. “And it is that alone that has saved your skin.” Bradford’s white moustache had bristled. “For now.”
“Thank you, sir,” Bowman had heard himself reply.
“I am minded, however,” the commissioner had continued, “to place you in the care of one of your colleagues.” Bowman had blanched at the phrase. “Sergeant Graves is, I believe, a man of good temperament and one who may be trusted to play a straight bat.”
Bowman blinked. He resented being looked after like a child. “He is that, sir,” he agreed, quietly.
“I shall put him in your way, Inspector Bowman. It will do you good. But in the meantime, I shall place you on intermittent leave.”
A sigh had shuddered through Bowman’s body, not unnoticed by the commissioner. “To be clear,” Sir Edward Bradford had concluded, “you are only to work on those cases he brings to you, for he shall be doing so with my explicit authority.” Bowman had nodded in understanding, lifting his fingers to his temples where a dreadful throbbing had returned.
Bowman stared across the carriage at his young colleague. Swaying with the motion of the train, he was leaning forward on his elbows, his blond curls swinging into his eyes. Bowman knew why Graves was here. Did Graves know he knew? The inspector had always had an unswerving admiration for his companion. He was ever dependable, with a constitution fit for his occupation. But now Bowman felt another emotion prick at him, like the prongs of a fork, and he did not like it. He felt resentment.
“He is satisfied,” Bowman replied with masterful ambiguity. Graves held him in his gaze, a look of doubt clouding his usually cheerful features.
“Good,” the sergeant replied, simply. An uneasy silence hung between them as the train pulled into Reading Station, a sharp whistle heralding its arrival.
As they stood on the platform awaiting a connecting train, Bowman raised his head to the
sun and felt his skin tighten in the heat. The neck of his shirt was moist with sweat. Graves returned from a barrow at the station entrance and offered him an iced confection that he declined despite feeling hungry. Moving to stand in the shade of the waiting room, Bowman took a breath to steel himself. He could feel Graves’ eyes upon him. Guiltily, he began to wonder where and when he might find his next drink. The alcohol had quietened his dreams and stilled his visions. He hadn’t seen Anna for weeks. It was only now, in the withering gaze of the sun, that he realised what a desperate void the visions had left. As dreadful as the apparitions had been, they had provided an unlikely comfort. Graves placed a hand lightly on his back.
The Body in the Trees Page 3