“Are ye lost?” he asked, warily.
Bowman could tell at once that he was, or had at least once been, a proud man. His back as he stood was ramrod straight, his shoulders pushed back so that his chest puffed out before him. He had a narrow face with a clean-shaven jaw. His shrewd eyes peered out between a pair of trim, white eyebrows, his snowy white hair was parted meticulously above his right ear. Despite his exertions, Bowman noticed, the man had not a single hair out of place.
“Which of these was home to Trooper Sharples?” Bowman asked, knowing the question in itself would be enough to rouse the man’s suspicions further.
‘depends who would be asking.” The man chewed at his tongue.
‘scotland Yard would be asking,” Bowman answered, carefully. “I’m Detective Inspector Bowman.” Bowman reached instinctively to his inside jacket pocket for his papers, only to realise he had left them in his coat at The King’s Head. Suddenly awkward, he endeavoured to turn the movement into an attempt to scratch at an itch. He let his hand fall.
The man frowned. It was clear he was not impressed. “Kreegan,” he announced by way of introduction, “James Kreegan.” He looked Bowman up and down. “Are you what passes for an inspector?”
From his position on the man’s path, Bowman caught his reflection in a mullioned window. It was true he was looking far from his best. His face was flushed with the exertion of his walk and he was alarmed to see his eyes were swollen, his skin clammy and blotched. Ashamed at the man he had become, Bowman cleared his throat.
“You are a military man?” he asked, keen to change the subject.
“Captain in the Grenadiers.” Kreegan snapped almost to attention as he spoke. Bowman could see it took all his effort not to salute.
“Which of these belonged to Sharples?” the inspector repeated, letting his eyes wander up the line of pretty dwellings.
The old man relented. “Number Nine,” he announced, “Just next door here. He was only there three months, come from Windsor in the spring.”
“But he must have had some connection to Larton to be granted an almshouse?” Bowman mused aloud.
“An estranged brother, he said. Long dead now.”
With a strained nod of gratitude, Bowman walked across the grass to the house next door. It was the same exactly to every other house in the terrace. Pushing at the door, the inspector found it locked as expected.
“Is it occupied?”
“Not yet,” growled the old man, leaning on his shovel.
“There must be plenty in the village who would be grateful of such a house.”
“Ah, but there’s not many have given so much for their country.”
Bowman turned to see the old soldier’s chest was puffed out further still, his chin jutting higher into the air. “Jedediah Sharples served his Queen and country well. It was an honour to have him as a neighbour, if only for a short while.”
“Where did he fight?”
“Last saw action at El Teb in the Sudan in Eighty Four.” Bowman could swear he saw the old man’s eyes grow misty with pride. “Terrible mess, it was. He spent three days alone in the desert, terribly injured. Heatstroke and some disease or other put paid to front line work,” he mumbled. “He told me he was never the same again.”
Bowman was thoughtful. ‘did he suffer all the rest of his life?”
“He did,” said Kreegan, sadly.
“Enough to end it?”
The question seemed to hang in the air. The man held Bowman’s gaze. “It would seem so.” he said. ‘sharples spent the intervening years in one dosshouse after another before finally being offered an almshouse.”
“Is there no way in?” Bowman gestured to the front door beside him.
“There’s a door front and back, just like all the rest.”
Bowman sighed. Looking in at the window, he could see a sparsely furnished parlour with one or two pictures on the walls.
“They’ve not been for his belongings yet.” Bowman was surprised to find the old soldier suddenly at his shoulder. For a moment, he looked the inspector up and down, as if considering whether to be of further assistance. “Walk to the end of the terrace,” he said at last. “The path leads round to the gardens.”
Bowman was not surprised to find the back door locked. He stood in the shade of the back garden. It was bordered with a neat yew hedge to all sides, with gates left and right into the neighbouring gardens. As he glanced to his right, he saw a curtain twitching in the next-door property. Certain he was being watched, Bowman ducked back to the door. Steeling himself to put a shoulder against it, he was startled to see Kreegan standing next to him, a key in his hand.
“We’re all getting old in these houses,” he explained, “We know one day we’ll be found by a neighbour. So each one holds another’s key.” He held it before him. “Old soldiers always look out for their pals.”
With a lean hand, he reached for the lock and opened it with a soft click, pushing the door ajar before him with a wink.
Stepping gingerly inside, Bowman was immediately struck by the smell.
‘damp,” explained the old man beside him, pointing at the furthest wall. There, Bowman saw a slick of black mould around the contours of the windows. The floor beneath was clearly wet and here and there, covered with a silvery film. Slugs clung to the wall around a hole in the window frame, their slimy trails tracing their paths over the glass. An imposing sideboard was the largest piece of furniture in the room. Too big for so small a house, it rose almost to the ceiling and held a few plates and a cracked glass on a tarnished silver tray. It was stained with some unknown substance that had hardened on the wood. Aside from a threadbare chaise longue and a small stove in the corner, there was little else to see. The bare wooden floor had been exposed by the removal of a carpet, and Bowman saw colonies of beetles and ants creeping between the wooden planks. It was a home of course, and provided shelter of sorts, but it seemed hardly befitting of one who had served his country with such valour.
“That’s where I found him.” Kreegan had walked on ahead and stood in the middle of the room, nodding down to the floor before the chaise longue. “With his brains blown out.”
Bowman’s eyes widened in surprise. “You found him?”
“I came as soon as I heard the shot. I knew there was something wrong.” Bowman was crouching on his haunches, imagining the body before him. “I heard the shot and then the smashing of glass, just as I told the constable.” The man’s voice had affected a weary tone.
Peering closer at the floor, Bowman noticed a dark stain on the wood. “Then, this is where he lay.”
“Blood everywhere,” the old soldier confirmed, ‘spattered up the wall there, too.”
Bowman followed his gaze to the wall opposite. There were indeed flecks of blood on the painted brickwork and the picture rail. The inspector stood and stretched his legs. “You say you heard the sound of smashing glass after the shot?”
Kreegan nodded. “They say it was from when he fell into this.” Stepping to one side, the man indicated a wooden case that had been placed on the sideboard. It was fashioned from a dark wood, polished so highly that the grain shone through. The lid was made of glass and Bowman could plainly see that, though still locked, it had been broken. Walking carefully to the sideboard so as not to disturb anything further, Bowman looked inside the box. It was trimmed with a faded, velvet lining and contained a collection of medals, old coins and memorabilia of a life spent in the army. Bowman noticed the old man had recovered a picture from a pile of papers on the shelf and was holding it up before him in the light of the window. It showed a man standing tall in full military uniform, his bayoneted rifle by his side. A set of luxurious moustaches adorned his face and his eyes seemed to burn with a patriotic fervour.
“Trooper Sharples?” Bowman asked as he took the portrait.
“The very same,” said Kreegan, quietly. “He was proud of his service and kept a few mementos of his time in the Sudan.”
“Along with his service revolver.”
Bowman raised his eyes.
‘don’t worry, inspector, it was always under lock and key.” Kreegan pointed at the lid, still locked in position.
“So, he smashed the glass as he fell?”
“So they say.”
“They?”
The soldier shrugged. “It was in the coroner’s report,” he stammered. “I was called as a witness.”
Bowman turned to the window, gnawing at his lower lip. The room felt suddenly very small, the air oppressive.
“So, are we to believe,” he began, slowly, “That Trooper Sharples, his mind in a sufficient turmoil to contemplate the taking of his own life, unlocked his box of keepsakes, drew out his revolver, loaded it, then calmly locked the lid again before blowing himself to Kingdom come?”
‘seems so,” Kreegan shrugged.
“And that,” Bowman continued, turning back into the room, “Instead of falling backwards from the momentum of the shot, as the blood-stained wall behind him would suggest, he first fell forwards upon the box, breaking the glass as he did so?”
The old soldier was silent.
“Where is the gun now?” Bowman demanded.
“Taken,” Kreegan shrugged, “For evidence.”
Bowman nodded. Here at last was a mystery. “Who did you call upon when you found the body?”
“Constable Corrigan from the police station in the Rise,” the old soldier blinked, struggling to recall the sequence of events, “I called upon the curate at the church, and he sent a boy to the police station. Constable Corrigan came at once.” As he turned to face the inspector, he suddenly realised he was alone. Confused, he walked to the window and pulled aside the rag that hung in the place of a curtain. There, striding along the gravel drive that ran past the church and back to the main road, he saw Inspector Bowman, his hands in his pockets and his chin on his chest, clearly deep in thought.
XI
Last Orders
Anthony Graves was struggling. He was used to winning people over but had to admit that, on this occasion at least, he had failed. The King’s Head was a riot of noise. There was a queue at the bar at least a half a dozen deep and the air was full of the aromas of tobacco, sweat and beer. It being a Friday, Graves guessed the workers in the fields had been paid and had come to spend their evening divesting themselves of their hard earned wages. Save one old lady who sat alone at a corner table nursing a glass of gin, the clientele was exclusively male. They were all in a competition, it seemed to the young sergeant as he sat by the piano, to be louder and ruder than each other and he could barely hear himself think above the jeering, shouting and cursing that filled the room. The crowd spilled out into the street. Young men brawled in the road, others argued at the tops of their voices. From where he sat, Graves could see one old man urinating up against the pharmacy door on the other side of the street. He rolled his eyes at the prospect of trying to get a decent night’s sleep.
“Not going to give us a tune?”
Graves turned to see Maude at his side, collecting glasses and tankards from the tables about him. She was jostled as she spoke and Graves noticed several drinkers feasting their eyes upon her over the brims of their glasses. She nodded to the piano as she added more glasses to her tray.
“I could,” Graves smiled, “But I don’t think I’d be heard above the din, much less appreciated. Is it always this busy?”
“On a Friday, it is. There’s three pubs in Larton, but still you'd think there wasn't enough beer to go round. These men are all from the fields and orchards around the place. The folk from the Village won”t dare set foot in here tonight.”
‘really?”
Maude bent to pick up some more glasses from the table. “Never the twain shall meet,” she winked.
“We don’t just come “ere for the beer, dearie!” A man in a battered bowler hat leaned in to squeeze the woman on the hip. Squirming out of his way, Maude delivered a resounding slap to his cheek. A cheer rose up from the surrounding mob, and they each pressed nearer for a better view of proceedings.
“Is that what you come for, Jenks?” Maude retorted, sharply, ““Cos there's plenty more where that came from.”
“It’s a start, ain”t it, Jenks!” The shout elicited a burst of laughter from the crowd. Jenks was staggering where he stood, more the result of his night on the beer than Maude’s expert backhand.
“I’ll see you in your dreams,” Maude leaned in closer to the man, playfully tweaking at his bulbous nose, “P”raps you’ll have better luck with me in your sleep.”
Jenks fell back against the table in a parody of a swoon, his arms spread wide in an invitation to the barmaid to join him.
“He’s love struck!” came the voice again.
“Worse than that,” another added, “He’s Maude-struck!” Those in hearing collapsed with laughter and there was much clapping of Jenks” back as he staggered away into the fray. Miraculously, Graves noticed, he had kept a tight hold of his beer throughout, and had not spilled a single drop. Seeing him retreat, Maude turned back to the sergeant with a twinkle in her eye. Leaning in to his ear, she revealed perhaps a bit too much of her ample bosom.
“How’s the inspector?” she asked, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.
Graves’ eyes flicked to the front door, suddenly guilty, where an agitated Inspector Bowman stood with his hands deep in his pockets. “Ask him yourself,” he said as he rose, “He won”t bite you.”
Everyone in the room seemed to follow Graves’ gaze to the door. Almost at once, as their eyes settled on the inspector, their conversations ceased. An awkward silence settled on the room. Bowman looked about him, suddenly aware that he was the object of everyone's interest. Glasses and tankards were held part way to the drinkers” mouths as they scrutinised the man before them. Bowman was being sized up. Swallowing hard, he walked towards Graves, painfully aware of every footstep. A hundred pairs of eyes seemed to follow him across the room and Bowman was sure he heard sniggering as he walked. Daring to lift his eyes to the crowd, he was met with disdainful looks and sneers. He could see men nudging each other in sport and nodding in his direction. Several of them swayed from their drink, trying in vain to focus on the spectacle before them. Suddenly, there came a snort of derision and one man dared to speak his mind.
“Oh look,” he shouted, “It’s the defective inspector!”
The room erupted into a roar. Stung by the remark, Bowman stopped in his tracks. Casting his eyes at the approaching Sergeant Graves, he saw his companion shoot a look of reprimand to the young barmaid by his side. Bowman recognised her as the woman who had helped him to his room. So, she had spread the word.
“Been fraternising with the locals, Graves?”
Even the usually cheery sergeant looked downcast. “Hardly,” he scoffed, “I’ve barely been spoken to all night. They’re all of them rather backward in coming forward.”
“All but one,” Bowman replied pointedly, catching the barmaid’s eye. As she looked to the ground to avoid his gaze, Bowman felt a pang of guilt. Of course she would talk. In a village such as Larton the appearance of two detectives from Scotland Yard was news enough, let alone the fact that one of them had promptly collapsed into a mania upon arrival.
“Where’s yer handcuffs, detective?” leered Jenks from the crowd. “Tie me up with Maude for the night and I’ll confess to anything!” There was much laughter at the remark and Bowman saw that even the barmaid in question fought to hide a smile.
‘don’t take Jenks back to Scotland Yard,” called a voice from the bar, “Who would we have to polis
h our fists on?” Another man found the courage to stagger across the floor. He stood nose to nose with the inspector, his breath hot and beery.
“We don’t welcome strangers to Larton,” he breathed, “Poking their noses into other peoples” business. Get your arses back behind your desks in London and leave us to our work.” His head nodded furiously as if to punctuate his words, and Bowman felt hot flecks of spittle land on his face as he spoke.
“Alright, Murphy,” the barmaid interjected, “Let’s leave the gentlemen be, shall we?” Hooking the man by the arm, she steered him back to the bar, throwing a look of apology over her shoulder to Graves as she did so.
“Come to my room, Graves,” Bowman said quietly as the crowd about them thinned, “We have much to discuss.”
“It is best to trust no one, Sergeant Graves.” Bowman was trying hard to contain his temper.
“I realise that now, sir.” The young sergeant stood by the door as Bowman paced restlessly about the room. His habitual frown cut all the deeper on his forehead and, once or twice, Graves thought he could see the trembling had returned to the inspector’s right hand. “But you seemed happy enough to let her into your confidence when asking for the Cousins’ address,” he said, boldly.
“You’ve compromised my authority in the midst of an investigation.” Bowman clutched his hands before him in an effort to still the tremor.
“I have, sir?”
There was a note in Graves’ voice that Bowman did not care for. “The last thing we need, Sergeant Graves, is the whole of Larton turned against us.” The inspector felt a muscle spasm beneath his left eye and turned to the window to hide it. His skin felt clammy. Taking a breath to settle his racing heart, he cleared his throat to continue. “We may need to question some of these people with regard to the deaths in the village. We must command respect amongst them or we’ll get nowhere. It’ll be Smithfield Market all over again.”
Graves cast his mind back to their investigation at Smithfield. When one of their number had been found swinging dead from a meat hook, the entire market had closed ranks in a conspiracy of silence. The detectives had needed all their wits to expose the black market in tainted meat and the dead man’s wish to expose it. Wits that Graves feared had since deserted his superior.
The Body in the Trees Page 9