The whistle, when it came, was long and loud. The effect was immediate and extraordinary. Whatever decorum had been on display was now abandoned. A great cheer erupted from the riverbank and Bowman saw several people pushed into the water. Hats were thrown into the air and, alarmingly, Bowman saw handfuls of fruit being thrown at the boats to hamper the competition. The richer residents of Larton Dean abandoned their chairs under the shade of their marquee and pressed forward, shaking their fists before them and waving their glasses and bottles in the air. The band played Rule Britannia, badly.
The river was suddenly a cacophony of activity. The crews grunted as they leaned into their oars, gritting their teeth as they strained against the water. They shouted in equal measures of encouragement and abuse to their colleagues as they set their faces to the race. Soon, the water was a swirl as oars dipped and rose against the swell.
Melville’s ‘Marigold’ pulled ahead straight away, gaining half a length with ease in the opening moments of the race. Prescott had taken it upon himself to call time for his fellow crewmembers, ensuring an even stroke and a formidable forward motion. Two other boats, those crewed by rival farmhands, had failed to start, their oars tangling viciously at the whistle. It took precious seconds to disengage. In the meantime, one team had lost their nerve and their timing. They veered off to the furthest bank, much to the evident chagrin of their leader who sat at the rear, his red face seemingly fit to burst in his rage. He took to his feet in a vain attempt to take command, pointing fruitlessly in the direction of the bridge as if the gesture alone would solve everything. The rival boat, in the meantime, sought to take advantage of the confusion. As the crews of the leading boats looked back at the commotion, so they slowed. The farmhands found their stroke and pressed onwards, coming to within a length of the shopkeeper’s boat before they pulled away. Graves was in his element. Laughing gaily, he put all his weight to the oar, feeling the heft of the water beneath his blade. They pulled forward with every stroke. His shoulders were burning with the exertion, his legs ached as he strained against his seat, but still he found the strength to throw his head back and laugh. And it was at that moment that disaster struck.
Bowman fancied he heard the sound from the riverbank. Even amidst the noise from the crowd, it was unmistakable; the sickening crack of wood on bone. As he fought to see through the melee, it was clear that something had gone dreadfully awry. The shopkeepers’ boat was slowing in the water, the oarsmen lifting their blades from the water in alarm. A long whistle blew and everything stopped. The inspector’s heart was in his mouth. He searched for Sergeant Graves. There, where he should have been, was an empty seat. Bowman’s stomach lurched.
“Graves!” he called. Heads turned towards him. He stepped closer to the riverbank and saw a shape in the water. The twist of a shirt mingled with a mass of curly, blond hair.
“Graves!” he called again, wondering why no one else was rushing to his aid. Suddenly more afraid for his companion than he had ever been, Bowman threw off his jacket and waded into the water. “Graves!” he called again. Knee deep into the river now, Bowman threw himself with abandon into the water. He barely noticed his boots weighing him down. Breasting the swell and gasping with the cold, he closed on the shape in the river. It seemed for all the world like so much flotsam. Swallowing water, Bowman reached out and grabbed a hold of Graves’ shirt, pulling his prone body towards him. “Graves,” he gasped, “can you hear me?” Pinching water from his eyes, Bowman gazed down at the sergeant’s face. A smudge of blood ran from his hairline, across his brow and down a cheek. His jaw hung slack. Ominously, his eyes were closed. Cradling Graves’ head in the crook of his elbow, Bowman struck out for the riverbank, suddenly aware he was alone in his endeavours. As he neared the shore, he found a foothold in the mud and stood, heaving Graves from the water. As Bowman stood with the sergeant in his arms, lifeless and inert, he shook the water from his hair and looked about him. Amongst the press of people crowded on the riverbank to watch, not a single one had come to render assistance. Instead, they stood in silence, as if detached from proceedings. Some folded their arms across their chest, displaying no intention to help. Upon each face, Bowman saw expressions of indifference. From their attitude and bearing, the inspector sensed a quiet satisfaction that the two detectives from Scotland Yard had received their just deserts. Lord Melville himself stood upon his rostrum with a look on his face that seemed somewhere between disapproval and disappointment.
Later, Prescott would insist it was an accident. During the confusion at the starter’s whistle, he would say, the Marigold had drifted from its line to the bridge and rammed the shopkeeper’s craft. The jolt had been enough to unseat Sergeant Graves who had leaned against the boat’s side for support. Lifting an oar to push the boats apart, Prescott had inadvertently made contact with the sergeant’s head. And so he had pitched backwards, unconscious before he'd even hit the water. All this he would relate to the crowd around him in The King’s Head that night. For now, however, he stood in his boat, silent and brooding.
“Please,” Bowman rasped, his throat dry from his exertions, “someone call a doctor!” He lowered Graves carefully to the grass, turning him on his side to release the water from his lungs. He heaved a sigh of relief as Graves coughed up a quantity of the river, his breathing settling into a rasping wheeze.
“I hope I may be of assistance, inspector?”
Looking up into the sun, Bowman squinted to see a familiar, elderly gentleman sporting a luxuriant, white moustache and steel wire spectacles.
“Mr Whitlock,” the inspector breathed. “We need to get him to his bed and to dress this wound.” Looking down at his own dishevelled clothes, Bowman noticed he had Graves’ blood upon his hands. Just as he bent to lift the sergeant from the grass, there came another cry.
“Look!” It was the girl upon her father’s shoulders. “A fire!” The crowd turned as one to see where she was pointing. On the horizon some two miles off, a plume of smoke rose from the trees.
“The gypsies’ camp!” called a man from the musicians” marquee. As the crowd bumped against each other for a better view, a group broke ranks from the throng. Walking with long strides at first, they soon broke into a run, calling others of their kind from the field to join them. At their head, a youthful looking man was at full pelt, his long hair whipping at his face as he ran. Leaving the regatta behind him, Jared Stoker scaled the rising ground to the causeway, his voice rising into a note of panic.
Maxwell Trevitt met the travellers on the road from Larton Rise. Pushing a barrow of cherries before him, he paused periodically to wipe the sweat from his hands. The sun was at its hottest now and he cursed the regatta for having been held on such a day. Still, he would sell some of his harvest, at least. The streets around him were almost empty. Just about the whole of Larton had gathered by the riverside. Soon, he knew, the jollities would be forgotten and Larton would return to a village where every man existed in a state of enmity with his neighbour. It had been ever thus, he mused as he grabbed the barrow again, and no doubt it always would be. As he crossed the railway line at Larton Station, he heard the sound of boots on dust. Looking ahead, he saw Jared Stoker running at speed towards him, his face flushed. Behind him came his cohort, calling and shouting between them.
“Bold as you like,” hissed Stoker as he approached. “How can you be so brazen?”
Trevitt slowed his stride. “Get out the way, Stoker,” he brayed. “There’s enough filth on the road as it is.” His hand went involuntarily to his cheek as he felt something whistle past his ear. Looking down at his fingers, he saw blood. Another stone caught him on the shoulder and he looked up to see three or four men taking aim again. They were clearly agitated by something.
“If you’ve had a hand in that, Maxwell Trevitt,” Ida Stoker screamed, her cheeks streaked with tears, “there’s nothing you have that will be safe.” Her legs almost buckled beneath her as she raised a trembling hand. Trevitt turned his head to
follow her gaze. There, where the trees met the sky, hung a dirty smudge of smoke. He was about to protest his surprise, when he felt a blow to the back of his head. It was enough to make his vision swim. The bright light from the sun seemed harsher still. Swaying on his feet, he turned into the path of another fist, this time aimed squarely at his jaw. His eyes seemed to shake in their orbits at the force of the blow. Soon, he was surrounded by Stoker and his men. He barely had time to raise his hands before they set upon him, their blows falling about his head and upper body. Spitting broken teeth from his mouth, Trevitt doubled up and raised his arms about his head to protect himself. A jab to the kidneys sent him to the ground.
“Jared, leave ’im!” Ida was keening. “We’ve got to get to the camp!”
Just as Trevitt felt he was going to black out, he heard a whistle blowing, long and loud. Tasting dust in his mouth, he looked up to see Constable Corrigan wading into the fray. One by one, he pulled the remaining men off Trevitt and slung them across the road. Staggering to regain their balance, they looked to their leader.
“Let him be,” Stoker commanded, his breath coming fast. “We need to get to Chalk Wood.”
“You would do well to pack whatever you’ve got left and go,” called Corrigan after them as the gypsies continued on their way. Pulling Trevitt to his feet, the constable hooked an elbow beneath his arms, dragging him across the dusty road to the police station. “All right, Trevitt,” he soothed. “Soon have you cleaned up.” With a mighty effort, Trevitt found the strength to walk unaided. He wiped the blood from his face with a tattered sleeve.
“Those bastards will suffer,” he panted. “I’ll raise the whole village against them!”
With that, he straightened himself up to his full height, shook himself loose from Corrigan’s grip and made his way back to his barrow. Muttering darkly under his breath, he gripped the handles with his broken hands and, with a curse, continued on his way.
The fire burned all night. Stoker and his men had been relieved to find it had been set at the tree where Cousins had been found and not in their camp at all. Working in unison, the travellers had cleared the undergrowth around their tents and caravans to prevent the blaze from spreading. They had lopped at branches and even felled the smaller trees. Starved of fuel, the fire eventually burned itself out in the early hours of the morning. Charred tree trunks smoked gently in the early light, lending a misty air to the woods around the camp. It was notable that no one from the village came to their aid although, once or twice throughout the night, Stoker had the impression they were being watched. As the gang had toiled to bring the fire to heel, he had noticed, from the corner of his eye, a figure in the woods. Lifting his head from his work to peer deeper into the trees, he had seen the figure fleetingly before it disappeared, melting into the undergrowth and the confusion about him.
XV
Consequences
Following the accident, Inspector Bowman brought Graves back to his room at The King’s Head on a barrow. He almost felt like apologising for the indignity. The coroner ran to his house, promising to return with a medical bag while Bowman and Maude manhandled Graves up the stairs. He was struck again by the lack of assistance afforded by the villagers. The young sergeant swung between a disturbed sleep and a confused, delirious state that could barely be described as wakefulness. His head rolled from side to side. His low, keening moans cut Bowman to the quick. Maude fetched fresh, hot water from the kitchens in a large earthenware jug. She cleaned Graves’ wound as best she could while Bowman retreated to his room to change into a dry shirt and trousers. Upon his return, he found Whitlock applying a bandage to Graves’ head. Bowman stripped his companion of his wet clothes. More than once, he caught Maude pretending to avert her gaze.
“He is concussed,” Whitlock opined. “As you might expect after such a blow.” Bowman noticed again that he exhibited no sign of the local accent. No doubt he had moved to Larton in pursuit of a quieter career. Bowman felt almost sorry for him. He watched as Whitlock administered a dose of Cerralgine. “Food for the brain,” he declared as he spooned the noxious liquid between Graves’ lips. Bowman took the opportunity to look his companion over.
He was a sorry sight, indeed. His curls were contained beneath an already-stained bandage, fastened with a pin. His skin looked paler than Bowman had ever seen, his lips blue and bloodless. He shivered uncontrollably as he lay back on his pillow, but whether he was conscious of the action or no, Bowman could not guess. Those eyes that had but recently been so full of life and mischief, now seemed to have no light at all. Graves stared straight ahead, blank and unseeing, evidently unconscious to all proceedings.
“I will leave you with a quantity of cocaine drops to be administered every four hours,” Greville Whitlock concluded, rising from the bedside to snap his bag shut beside him. Maude nodded, solemnly.
“I will stay with him,” she whispered.
“Perhaps that is just as well,” the coroner nodded. “The next night and day might well be crucial.”
Bowman nodded, sadly.“Might we have some fresh, hot water, Maude?” The inspector gestured to the ceramic bowl of water at the washstand. Aside from the pictures on the wall and the rug on the floor, Graves’ room had much the same layout as his own.
“Of course.” The young woman bobbed her head and collected the bowl, trying hard to avert her gaze from the water it held. It was tinted red from the cleaning of Graves’ wound and thick with clots of mud and blood.
Bowman closed the door after her with a soft click and sighed. “Are you Larton’s only doctor?” He could not help but regard the sergeant on his bed as he spoke. He seemed to be moving in and out of consciousness; sometimes still, sometimes fitful and restless. A sheen of sweat clung to his forehead. His sheets were stained.
“Larton has a doctor, Inspector Bowman, but you would never have found him so quickly at the regatta.” The coroner smiled gently, patting his case with a hand as he spoke. “You are lucky I have kept the tools of my trade.”
Bowman nodded. “What brought you to Larton, Mr Whitlock?”
Whitlock shrugged on his coat. “My late wife. She spent much of her childhood in a nearby town and fancied she would rather spend her later years near home.” Straightening his collar, he was suddenly wistful. “They were fewer in number than we had hoped.”
Bowman flicked his eyes to the coroner. “I am sorry to hear that,” he said.
Whitlock took a breath. “I was able to bring her comfort in her final hours, inspector. What husband could do more?”
Bowman sat on Graves’ bed. His mind was suddenly back on Hanbury Street. Anna’s death had been so swift and Bowman so distraught that he had not thought to offer her comfort as she died. With a pang of guilt, he remembered how it had been Graves who had rushed to her side. It had been Graves who had commandeered a carriage to take her body to hospital, Graves who had taken charge. Bowman chewed his lip. He had never thought of the moments following her death before. Perhaps he had wanted to deny them, or his lack of action. He had cowered by the roadside, his heart in his throat at the dreadful realisation of what he had done. How could he have faced her, even in her final moments? His memories were a blank. He had fallen through the ground, retreated from the world to a space of his own mind’s devising, and he had stayed there for seven months. Perhaps he was still there now. He could not bear now to look at Graves, just as he had been unable to look at her. The figure on the bed reproached him. In that moment, Bowman felt a profound lack of worth. His mouth dried. With a start, he realised the coroner was speaking.
“We are fortunate men, are we not inspector, in that in our professional lives, we bring comfort to others?” Whitlock was cleaning his spectacles on the lining of his coat. “As coroner, I bring certainty where there is doubt. That is the good I do.” Whitlock replaced his spectacles upon his nose and leaned over the inspector. “What good have you done here, Inspector Bowman?”
Bowman blinked. He wasn’t sure how he should
reply.
“In the short time since your arrival,” Whitlock continued, quietly, “Larton has practically fallen apart.” His voice was steady and uneven, betraying no emotion. “The gypsies’ camp is ablaze and Mr Trevitt has been set upon.”
Bowman felt his face flush and his neck burn. “You cannot lay all that at my door.”
Whitlock nodded. “Was it your idea that Sergeant Graves should take part in the regatta?” he asked, simply. His face was all concern, his eyebrows knitted together in an expression of sympathy.
“It was his own idea,” Bowman sighed. “Although born of my desire to gain the villagers’ trust.” He felt a tremor in his right hand as he spoke. He gripped it hard, digging his nails into the palm. Would it never be still? Looking back up at the coroner, he saw that he had noticed the movement. He held his gaze, afraid to look away.
“Ah,” Whitlock said, sadly. “Then perhaps you bear a responsibility for his condition, too.” He clutched his doctor’s bag to his chest as he made for the door.
Bowman heard the challenge in the coroner’s voice, and stood to meet it. “I am here to investigate the deaths of three men, Mr Whitlock.” He clutched at the bedstead, suddenly unsteady on his feet.
Whitlock paused with his fingers on the handle, then turned into the room. “We are proud men are we not, inspector?” Bowman frowned. “It is a hard thing to admit when we are wrong.” Whitlock’s kindly face was creased into a mask of concern.
“I must be allowed to investigate the matters before me.”
The Body in the Trees Page 14