Tom knew his life had changed. Where once he had kept company with the other children of Larton, now they shunned him, regarding him with suspicious eyes. That Fletcher Cousins had been found hanged in Chalk Wood disturbed them enough. That he had been found by his own son filled them with a preternatural dread. As he walked alone through the village, he would see children and adults alike gather together to nod and point, their voices hushed in whispered insinuations. Where he might once have expected sympathy, he received nothing but cold indifference. Those richer men from Larton Dean who he might once have relied upon for a ha’penny, now turned away as he approached. The friendliest of villagers crossed the road to avoid an awkward meeting. As a consequence, just when he should have been listened to the most, Tom was ignored. With his father gone, and his meagre wage from Trevitt’s farm with him, there would be less food on the table. Life was precarious in Larton and he had already lost two brothers to scarlet fever. What chance did his family have now, teetering between life and death?
Throwing himself to the ground in his den beneath the bridge, Tom scooped up a handful of stones to throw into the river. Duke waded in after them, shaking the water from his snout as he fished them from the riverbed. Duke was Tom’s only joy. He felt a kinship with the hound. Together they had been witness to an extraordinary event beyond the comprehension of others. Duke nuzzled against the boy’s face, causing Tom to rock back with a giggle, wiping his face on the back of his hands. Soon he would have to go home. With a pocket full of apples from old Thornhill’s tree and a loaf of bread taken from the bakery shelves, he might feed the family for one more night. If he climbed the hill to the Dean tomorrow he might well find an open window and, from the proceeds, feed them for another. As he settled back to the sound of the babbling water, Tom took a breath. He had once snuck into All Saints Church on a Sunday to hear the vicar give a sermon. He had stood amazed at the scene as the villagers filed in, their heads bowed. There stood Albert Padley the pharmacist, whom Tom knew to be an adulterer. In the pew behind him, Vincent McGonigle gave lusty voice to ‘Guide Me, O, Thou Great Jehovah’, despite the fact that everyone in the village knew he had stolen from school funds. Even Mrs Thewlis who, it was commonly known, had starved and beaten her own children, could happily let her eye wander unaffected across the carving to her left. There a representation of Christ himself, arms outstretched, head inclined in a gesture of gentle entreaty, stood above the inscription; ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me.’ Each of the worshippers seemed content to join in with the great pretence, that God had reserved for each of them a special place in Heaven. Tom’s eyes had been drawn to the vaulted roof where the congregation’s voices resounded as one song. Standing in his rags amongst the villagers in their Sunday best, their eyes fixed upon the altar before them, he could be certain of one thing; that God had no care for him or his family. The vicar, a forbidding man with the face of a drinker and the breath to match, had taken his place at the pulpit to read from Corinthians.
“When I was a child,” he had intoned, “I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child.” Tom saw him grip the sides of the lectern for support. “But when I became a man, I put away childish things.”
The phrase had puzzled the boy. He could not then imagine how such a thing might feel. Now, as he plucked at the grass on the riverbank, Tom fancied he understood. He would have to put away childish things and become a man. At the age of just twelve, it was a daunting prospect. Without the presence of a father, Tom knew he was destined for the workhouse, his mother and baby sister with him. He leaned back in the shade of the bridge, scratching Duke about the ears for comfort. As the dog fell asleep amongst the bulrushes, Tom heard the rattle of an approaching carriage. Scampering into the light to investigate, he peered through the tall grass that grew along the bank and saw a smart, black landau passing over the bridge. The paintwork glinted in the sun. His eyes seemed to lock with those of one of the passengers, a lean, forlorn-looking man with a limp moustache and a troubled countenance. Dipping below the line of the bridge, Tom crouched to watch the carriage turn off the road and into the sweeping drive leading to Larton Manor.
V
By Appointment
Bowman stared from the coach as it passed through Larton to the manor house. Occasionally, the scrubby trees and hedges beside the road had fallen away to reveal dry plots of land before lonely farmsteads and cottages. Every building they passed seemed in a state of disrepair. Evidence of industry presented itself at regular intervals; a blacksmith at his anvil, dripping sweat as the chime of his hammer rang out across the road, a woman dressed in little more than a filthy apron casting seed before her scraggy chickens, a team of labourers put to work to gather hay in a field. Beyond a line of trees he glimpsed the river. The canvas of a marquee hung limp and unsecured and several trestle tables had been arranged along the bank; the site, no doubt, of the impending regatta. Bowman saw several men at work to erect a tent and hammering posts into the ground. As they passed from Larton Rise into the Village, he noticed a change. The houses were at once smarter and better tended. For all that they presented a cheerier aspect, however, Bowman couldn't help but notice that every window on the lower floors was adorned with bars to prevent intrusion. Now and then he would catch sight of suspicious eyes peering through curtains. Two men in overalls paused in their work repointing a wall along the roadside to watch the carriage pass, their eyes narrowing as they tried to peer at the passengers within. From their wary demeanour, Bowman guessed strangers were rarely seen in Larton. Catching sight of a small boy beneath the bridge on the causeway, Bowman lifted his eyes to see the chimneys of Larton Manor rising in between a knot of poplar trees in the distance.
“Why do you think we are expected at the manor?” he asked of his companion, the smell of polished leather pricking at his nose.
Graves leaned his chin on a hand to watch as the countryside rolled by. Bowman mused that the sergeant seemed to be regarding the whole excursion as little more than a jolly adventure.
“Beats me, sir,” Graves offered, cheerily. “Perhaps there’s more to know before we begin.”
Bowman nodded, slowly. He couldn't quite shake the feeling that, somehow, he was being tested. If so, he was determined not to be found wanting, though how exactly he could prove himself to the commissioner some thirty miles from London was, he felt, something of a mystery.
The two men were flung to one side as the landau swung off the road. Bowman cursed the driver and threw a look of apology to Graves as he straightened his hat upon his head. Soon they were travelling over a gravelled drive, and it was possible to believe that they had entered another world and time entirely. A manicured lawn stretched before them towards what Bowman could see had originally been a squat, Tudor manor house. Several alterations over successive generations had left the house with something of a hotchpotch appearance, but none the less impressive for it. A whole new wing stretched out to the left, home to two storeys of rooms, their casements thrown open to admit such air as they could. To the right, the original house sprawled into the grounds beyond. A patchwork of wooden beams and whitewashed loam peered between the ivy that encroached across much of the house. The gardens beyond were obscured by a rolling topiary, swooping and diving in abstract shapes.
A set of wrought iron gates was shut behind them as the coach passed through, the gatekeeper standing for a moment to consider the carriage’s occupants. Ahead, Bowman saw a pair of peacocks scatter from the road at their approach, a flurry of indignant feathers flying from the oncoming clatter of hooves and wheels. Squawking noisily at the retreating carriage, they scratched at the ground as if to express their annoyance.
Finally, the carriage came to a halt before the grand entrance. Peering from the window, Bowman could see the porch had been added some time after the original building. It was far too big for the small wooden door that stood in its shade. Two rampant lions, carved in stone and at least eight feet high, stood to eith
er side, their claws reared and their teeth bared. The whole effect was to give the house the appearance of having ideas above its station. Perhaps, mused Bowman, it spoke volumes as to the character of its current occupant.
The two detectives had been sitting for quite some time before it dawned upon the pair of them that they had been left alone to disembark. The driver had descended from his lofty height and now stood to one side, his arms folded, in deep conversation with a gardener. Every now and then, Bowman saw the two men glance his way. He and his companion were undoubtedly the subject of much discussion. With a sigh and a look of resignation, Graves lowered the window and reached out to the handle. The door swung open with ease, and Bowman followed the sergeant out and onto the gravel drive. Bowman cleared his throat to get the attention of the driver, but the man in the heavy coat turned away, clearly believing his conversation with the gardener to be of greater import. Rolling his eyes, the inspector walked to the front door and reached for the bell pull.
“Quite the welcome,” scoffed Graves, his hands behind his back.
“Indeed,” Bowman agreed, feeling none too comfortable in these forbidding surroundings.
Just as they had given up hope of ever gaining entry, the door was pulled part way open. Scraping against the uneven floor, it plainly took some effort to open further. There, in the doorway, stood a man of indeterminate age. Indeed, it would not have surprised Bowman if the man was as old as the house. His skin was as lined and dry as the wood in the porch around him. Barely five and a half feet tall, he was dwarfed by the lions that stood to either side. Bowman was doubtful he was even aware of them. The ancient footman, blinking in the light, stepped bravely across the threshold to address them.
“Yes?” he croaked. As the man stood in the full glare of the sun, Bowman could see he was attired as if from another age. A pair of breeches hung loose around his skinny legs, revealing wrinkled hose tucked into a pair of shiny black shoes, each adorned with a silver buckle. A long, mustard-coloured waistcoat hung almost to his knees, a silk scarf tucked into the collar from which protruded a pale, scrawny neck. Finally, a delicate pince-nez balanced precariously on his pointed nose, though what use they were Bowman could only guess. The whole effect was of a child who had been let loose at the dressing up box, or of a small ape who had been dressed in the accoutrements of a man for amusement.
“We have been called by Lord Melville.” Bowman tried hard to stifle his mirth. “I am Detective Inspector Bowman from Scotland Yard,” he gestured to his left, suddenly feeling the need to speak up. “This is Sergeant Graves.”
The diminutive footman had to crane his neck to take both men in. Seemingly satisfied at Bowman’s introduction, he gave a smart nod and turned back into the house.
The hallway, at least, gave some respite from the heat. The ivy creeping at the window conspired to obstruct the sun’s rays entirely, so much so that Bowman paused mid step so that his eyes might adjust to the gloom. Looking about him, he saw an array of stuffed animals in various intimidating poses. Here a tiger skulked amongst some potted ferns, there a brown bear reared to its full height. Fowl of various kinds were presented in glass cases or, he noticed, even strung from the ceiling as if in flight. Clearly bemused by the spectacle, Sergeant Graves nodded towards a polar bear, poised to strike from behind an ornate marble pillar. It really was the most singular thing he had seen for quite some time. Their footsteps echoing off the tiled floor, the two men were led into the older parts of the house. Graves had to duck to save his head from the low beams and Bowman found himself having to breathe hard against the damp air. Here, the windows gave out to the grounds behind the house. Ducking his head, Bowman could see several children playing croquet with an older lady he took to be their mother. She was smartly dressed in a sparkling white crinoline dress, a fashionable hat pinned to her hair.
At last, they were led into a more open space, dominated by a large, brick fireplace. Here, tattered rugs were thrown about the floor, rucking here and there so as to prove hazardous to the unwary. A suit of armour stood to attention by the door, a halberd raised in its gloved hand. All around the room, a haphazard collection of furniture groaned beneath the weight of books, charts and papers. Even to Bowman’s eye, there was no uniformity of intent here, no uniting principle of design. Finally, his eyes alighted upon a carved bas-relief above the fireplace. Two rearing horses stood either side of a globe which itself rested upon a pair of crossed swords. Beneath the carving lay the words; ‘Absolutum Dominion’. If ever there was a phrase that might apply most precisely to the man who stood at the fireplace, this was surely it. He was no taller than Bowman, yet he had about him an air of absolute entitlement. His face seemed carved from granite, his sharp eyes clear and probing. A mane of thick, curly hair was arranged over his forehead, giving him a countenance and profile, mused Bowman, such as one might see on an old Roman coin. The man stood, solid and immovable, hands on hips and feet planted on the floor, displaying the easy air of one for whom nothing in life had been unattainable.
“Detective Inspector Bowman and Sergeant Graves,” announced the footman with a sharp bow, his thin, rasping voice devoid of anything but a weary indifference.
“Thank you, Jewson,” returned the man at the fireplace. His voice was clear and sonorous as a bell.
As the footman turned away from the room, Bowman saw him look Sergeant Graves up and down, clearly displeased at the lack of gravity with which the young sergeant was approaching the situation. Graves returned the look with his usual, cheery smile, then turned his attention to the man by the fireplace.
“Inspector Bowman, you are welcome.” Lord Melville took a step from the fireplace towards the sergeant. Now in the light, Bowman could see the man was dressed in a formal coat, waistcoat and trousers. A silk stock was tied at his throat and the chain of a fob watch hung from his pocket. He walked with a cane and presented himself with a limp that Bowman recognised as a symptom of gout. Seeing the man’s eyes on his companion, the inspector stepped forward, eager to dispel any confusion as to who was who.
“This is Sergeant Graves,” he explained. The man at the fireplace raised his eyebrows. “I believe you are expecting us?”
“Expecting you?” Lord Melville boomed. “You are here at my behest, Inspector Bowman!”
Bowman swallowed hard. Lord Melville clearly fancied himself as a force to be reckoned with.
“I do hope Prescott wasn’t short with you?”
“Prescott?”
“My driver. I'm afraid he finds the company of horses more appealing than that of people.”
Graves smiled, mischievously. “He clearly spends a lot of time in the care of his carriage.”
“We are here in connection with the death of a Mr Fletcher Cousins,” Bowman coughed, irritably. “We understand he was found on your land.” As if in response to some unspoken command, Sergeant Graves reached into his pocket for his notebook.
Melville regarded the inspector with an almost Olympian detachment, as a learned man might regard a child. “He was found in Chalk Wood,” he intoned. “Along with half of Larton, it has been in my family since Domesday.” He fixed Bowman in his gaze. “On your journey from the station, inspector, you will have no doubt observed many a farmstead, field and smithy. They all pay rent to me. Anything that occurs upon my land reflects upon my family as much as the village. If Larton thrives, then so does Larton Manor.” He smiled. “And, of course, vice versa.”
“It seems a rather singular village.”
“Larton is a village in three minds, inspector. The Dean, the Rise and the Village have always been at odds. The only time we come together is for the regatta, and only then to beat each other in competition.”
“And the manor’s place in all this?”
“I like to think it provides a certain continuity. Perhaps a reminder that all in Larton are one.”
“Under the yoke of the Lord of the Manor?” Bowman’s moustache twitched.
“If that is ho
w you wish to see it, yes.” Melville gave a slight smile.
The inspector nodded. “Might we have the details?”
At this, the man sighed, as if already bored of the story. “Fletcher Cousins was found some three days ago at eleven of the clock in the morning, hanging from a tree in Chalk Wood. There were no signs of foul play.”
“Yet you are convinced it was murder?”
Melville was silent.
“Who found the poor man?” Graves asked, the stub of a pencil poised between his fingers.
“His son,” retorted Melville. Bowman winced at the news.
“Has he been questioned?”
Lord Melville shrugged. “You should direct that question to the local constabulary.”
Bowman sighed. “I should think the one person you would wish to interview would be the one who discovered the body.”
“He’s just a boy,” Lord Melville scoffed. “You’ll get nought from him but flights of fancy.”
Bowman sighed. “Why have you called upon Scotland Yard?”
“Because, Inspector Bowman,” began Lord Melville, “Fletcher Cousins is not the first.”
Bowman heard Graves’ pencil come to a halt on the page. Lord Melville nodded. “Not by a long chalk.”
Bowman shared a look with his companion as Lord Melville walked across the room to a large sideboard by the far wall. As with everything in the room, it was completely out of place with the rest of the furniture. There was something Oriental in its design that was wholly out of keeping with the Tudor beams in the walls around it. Opening a drawer, he retrieved a bundle of newspapers, gesturing that the inspector should join him at a low table that stood in the light by a window. As Melville laid the newspapers flat upon the tabletop, Bowman could see they were copies of The Berkshire Chronicle. Graves leaned in, the better to read the headlines.
The Body in the Trees Page 5