The coroner looked pointedly at the feverish man on the bed. Graves was shivering with cold in spite of the evening heat. “At any cost?”
Bowman felt his gorge rise at the remark. “Sergeant Graves would have it no other way,” he said, still not daring to look at his companion.
Whitlock’s eyebrows rose on his forehead. “What a shame he is not able to confirm that himself.” Flinging the door open, the coroner stepped onto the landing beyond, pausing only to deliver a final thought before he left. “Larton is a village like no other, inspector. You have kicked at a hornets’ nest. You should not be surprised if someone gets stung.” With a final, sad look to Sergeant Graves, Whitlock shut the door behind him, leaving Inspector Bowman to swallow nervously and consider the implication of the coroner’s words.
Bowman, as he expected, did not sleep. Unable to contemplate the thought of eating, he had foregone his dinner and, after seeing that Sergeant Graves was comfortable for the night, elected to return to his room. He had left the sergeant in the care of Maude, confident that her obvious feelings for him would ensure her undivided attention. Now Bowman lay on his bed, stock-still. His room was directly below Sergeant Graves’ and every now and then he would hear the sergeant groan or mumble incoherently. Once, he even caught the plaintive strains of a lullaby drifting through the ceiling. Maude had evidently found a way to soothe her troubled patient as she mopped his brow. The song reminded Bowman of his life before the accident on Hanbury Street. It reminded him of simpler times. He could not help but think of how his fortunes had changed in so brief a time. In a little over a year, every certainty had dissolved, everything he had thought solid and permanent had proven illusory. He could not help but think of the destruction in his wake.
Bowman lifted his hands before his eyes. The fingers on his right hand twitched involuntarily. He felt a cold sweat on his neck. His breath came short and quick. As he lurched forward, he felt he was floating up through the ceiling, through the roof and away. The world turned beneath him, without him, in spite of him. Far below, a young girl was hanging on a makeshift scaffold by St. Saviour’s Dock. Anthony Graves was standing in a gathering crowd of onlookers, his face contorted with horror. He knew her. Kitty Baldwin had been hanged as a warning from the Kaiser.
The scene dissolved around him and he flew further. Now he looked down, impossibly, into Hardacre’s den. Below him, in the gloom, stood Sergeant Williams, Inspector Treacher, Graves and, there by the ragged curtain that led to Hardacre’s cell, the inspector himself. All were held in the middle of some action, like a tableau in a play. Time was frozen. In the doorway stood Jabez Kane, his scarred face leering in the dark. Before him, he held Constable Evan with a knife to his throat. Bowman heard a high-pitched scream like the whistle of some huge locomotive and, slowly, the scene played out before him. Kane’s knife swept across Evan’s neck, the resultant slick of blood spurting into the room and onto the floor. As the life drained from him, Bowman was sure the young constable looked directly at him, his eyes burning with a dreadful accusation.
Finally, as he knew he would be, he was at Hanbury Street. There below him, he saw an image of himself, coat tails flapping in the wind, gun in hand. The shot was loosed and Bowman knew a train of events had been set in motion.
The image retreated as Bowman fell down to the ground. The earth pressed in around him, against his shoulders, his legs and face. He clawed at the sod in desperation. The realisation came as the weight of the earth pressed against his chest, squeezing the breath from his lungs. Bowman wasn’t just in the ground. He was in his grave.
He was brought to his senses by a knocking at the door. Snapping his eyes open, he realised he was sitting in the chair by the fireplace. The morning light streamed through the open curtains. Bowman pressed a hand to his chest to still his thumping heart. The knocking came again. Collecting his wits, he found the strength to respond.
“Come!” he rasped, instinctively, and the door swung open on its hinges. There, framed in the doorway, was the not inconsiderable bulk of Detective Inspector Ignatius Hicks.
XVI
Chapter And Verse
“Ah, Bowman,” boomed Hicks from the door. “There you are.” The bluff inspector clamped the bit of his pipe between his teeth. It wasn't long before a noxious cloud of smoke had drifted into the room, all but obscuring the light from the window. Despite the early heat, Hicks was dressed in a long astrakhan coat that hung down to his portly calves. A rich, burgundy waistcoat strained across the expanse of his chest, the buttons groaning in protest against his girth. The collar of his shirt was open. His only other concession to the temperature was the absence of a cravat at his neck. Ludicrously, he had not thought to remove the battered top hat that teetered on his head. It knocked dangerously against the top of the doorframe as he stood, his hands on his wide hips. His great beard bristled with agitation as he spoke.
“Where can a man find a decent breakfast in these parts?”
Bowman pushed himself up from the chair in alarm. “You have been sent for?” he stuttered, unable to conceive of any other reason why Hicks should have joined the fray.
“Much against my better judgement, believe me.” Hicks breezed into the room, catching his hat in his hands by the brim in one deft movement. “I understand you’re a man down.” Heaving his weight against the sash window, he threw it open to admit some air.
Bowman wrung his hands. “Sergeant Graves is - ” he hesitated. “Indisposed.”
Hicks turned into the room. “So I hear.” He glared at his fellow inspector. “Scotland Yard received a wire late last night from Lord Melville. I was despatched in the early hours to provide assistance.”
And, mused Bowman wryly, no doubt to report back on his own condition. With a lurch, he realised what a picture he must present. His shirt tails hung loose about his waist, his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. His hair hung lank upon his head and his chin was rough with the beginnings of a beard. He cleared his throat before he spoke.
“Then you know the details of the case?” Bowman shifted uncomfortably where he stood.
Hicks nodded. “The commissioner is most concerned to hear that you have placed one of his officers in harm’s way in the course of your investigations.”
Bowman resented the implication. “I can think of no police investigation that did not come without its attendant risks.”
Hicks appeared satisfied with his response.
“Perhaps you will find some breakfast downstairs,” Bowman offered, attempting a more casual air. “If you will exercise a little patience, I shall present myself at the table in good time.”
“Ah!” Hicks rubbed his enormous belly. “Then I shall do just that.” He seemed to salivate at the thought. “But where might I find Sergeant Graves?”
“He is in the room directly above us,” Bowman explained. “And I am sure he will be as delighted to see you as I am.”
Hicks gave no indication of hearing the disdain in Bowman’s voice. Instead, he drew on his pipe to release a final haze of blue smoke, gathered his coat about him and made for the door with great galumphing strides. In just a few moments, Bowman heard the inspector’s boots on the ceiling above.
The smell of kippers almost turned Bowman’s stomach as he alighted the stairs from the landing. There, at a table by the window, sat Inspector Hicks. If he knew that most of his breakfast had lodged in his beard as he ate, he did not seem unduly bothered. He dug into the two fish on his plate with an almost religious fervour, his forehead creased in concentration, his mouth hanging open to receive his fork. The fish looked entire, Bowman noticed, heads, tails and all. Between mouthfuls, Hicks would wipe his mouth upon his sleeve so that, already, Bowman could see his cuffs were marked with a greasy sheen.
“He looks in a bad way,” Hicks announced as he saw Bowman take his last step into the room.
“He is,” the gaunt inspector replied, softly.
“Accident, was it?” Hicks was tearing great lumps
from a hunk of bread as he spoke.
“I do not believe so.”
“Oh?” Hicks paused between mouthfuls, his bushy eyebrows rising on his forehead. He motioned that Bowman should sit with him for breakfast, pushing the opposite chair away from underneath the table with a dusty boot.
“It’s a question of timing, Inspector Hicks,” Bowman said as he eased himself into the chair. Pulling himself in, he placed his elbows on the table and made steeples with his fingers as he explained. “Three men have died here in the last eight weeks. The results of the inquests suggested self-murder, but the latest, that of Fletcher Cousins, is an anomaly. There is a peculiar detail that unites the other two cases.” Looking up from his hands, Bowman saw Hicks shovelling great forkfuls of fleshy fish into his mouth as he listened. Reaching up with his pudgy fingers, he probed his wet mouth for errant bones, wiping the resultant mess on the lapels of his coat.
“Go on,” Hicks commanded through a mouthful of poached kipper.
“Both men died on the second Saturday of the month. A Trooper Sharples supposedly blew his brains out on the Fourteenth of May, one Erasmus Finch threw himself from the church tower on the Eleventh of June.”
“And yesterday was the second Saturday of July.” Hicks nodded slowly as he reached for a tankard of ale. “That is certainly a peculiar detail.”
“Furthermore,” Bowman continued, warming to his theme, “there are certain inaccuracies in the case of Trooper Sharples.” Hicks withdrew the tankard from his lips, leaving a beery froth on his beard. Bowman ploughed on. “Sharples kept his old service revolver in a locked, glass-topped wooden case. A neighbour reports hearing the sound of breaking glass after the shot was fired. The coroner found he had fallen against the glass but it is clear to me the man fell backwards, away from the case.”
“Then what caused the sound of breaking glass?”
Bowman paused, waiting for his thoughts to arrange themselves sufficiently that he might speak them aloud. “I believe,” he began, “that Sharples was shot by another gun, entirely.” Hicks leaned back in his chair. Bowman fancied he heard the spindles on the backrest creaking with alarm. “Sharples’ gun was never tested but sent with undue haste back to Windsor. We cannot know if the bullet that killed Sharples came from his own service revolver.”
“And the breaking glass?” Hicks repeated.
Bowman leaned in. “Having shot Jedediah Sharples, the murderer smashed the glass of the case, removed the gun and placed it next to the body. That would account for the glass being broken after the shot was fired, and for the case still being locked upon examination.” The inspector’s moustache twitched upon his upper lip. “Someone tried very hard to make it appear that Sharples had taken his own life with his own gun. It is clear to me that the man was murdered.”
Hicks stared blankly back. “To what end?”
Bowman wasn’t entirely certain Hicks believed him. “I do not yet know,” he confessed. Rising from his seat, he paced the floor to the window, his hands behind his back as he gazed into the street beyond. There was a steady stream of villagers along the road, all heading in the same direction. Bowman recognised some faces from the regatta. They were dressed in smarter attire this morning. Even the children were dressed in their neatest clothes. “There was no evidence of a break-in at Sharples’ house, so I suggest he knew his assailant and let him in willingly.”
“Then it could have been anyone in the village,” Hicks scoffed. He impaled the second fish to the plate with his knife as if in fear it would fight back. Bowman let the thought sink in. Any one of those people outside could have killed Trooper Sharples. Did they think they had got away with it? “If not suicide,” Hicks continued, “what was the motive for murder?”
“There was no evidence of burglary,” Bowman shrugged. “If Sharples wasn’t killed for something he had,” he mused, almost to himself, “perhaps he was killed for something he knew.”
Hicks belched. “Where is your evidence?”
Bowman shook his head. “Aside from Sharples’ neighbour, a Captain Kreegan, Larton is a closed book. I am regarded with suspicion and my conduct questioned by everyone.”
Hicks noticed a note of self-pity in Bowman’s voice. “Are you able to pursue your enquiries sufficiently?” He looked his companion up and down. Bowman’s clothes hung upon him as if they were a size too big. His skin was grey and his eyes bloodshot. In short, he did not look his best.
Bowman sighed. “Perhaps the answer lies with Erasmus Finch, the second man to die. I intend to call upon his widow this morning.”
“You’ll be going to church first, of course.” Maude was stepping off the stairs into the doorway, a bowl of water in her hands and a towel slung over her shoulder. “I’m sure the good Lord will forgive me if I stay here with Anthony.” Hicks raised his eyebrows at the use of the sergeant’s Christian name. Bowman turned back to the window. Of course, it was Sunday. That would explain the steady flow of passersby in the street. They were heading to All Saints Church for the morning service. Maude blushed as she continued. “Will you be wanting breakfast before you go, inspector?”
“I can recommend the poached kippers,” offered Hicks. “Though they’re not a patch on the devilled eggs at the The Silver Cross.” The portly inspector stabbed at a fish head on his plate. The very thought turned Bowman’s stomach.
“I have no appetite for breakfast,” he smiled, weakly. A worried look crossed Maude’s pretty face as she left. Bowman picked at his fingers.
“So,” began Hicks as he pushed his chair back from the table, “shall we to church?”
Inspector Bowman walked the short distance from The King’s Head with his head down, not daring to make eye contact with the villagers around him. Despite this, he was recognised by several and felt himself subject to the usual looks and nudges that had become common currency in recent months. Lifting his head to cross the road, he recognised Phelps the shopkeeper walking with a much younger lady and what seemed to be at least half a dozen children. They each exhibited the same array of alarmingly haphazard teeth that left Bowman in no doubt but that they belonged to Phelps. The shopkeeper lifted his hat in a gesture of greeting, but Bowman could tell from the man’s eyes that it was a mockery. He cast his eyes back down to the road and walked on. Inspector Hicks sauntered breezily at his side, picking bits of kipper from his teeth in between drawing on his habitual pipe. He was not afraid to offer anyone a cheerful greeting as he strode to the church, but it was seldom returned. For the most part, he was met with looks of disapproval or disbelief. Bowman was not sure at all that he was doing much in the way of winning over the villagers.
All Saints Church stood a hundred yards from the river Thames by Larton Bridge, its high flint walls glinting in the sun. From its tower, the bells rang out to call Larton Village to prayer. It was a scene played out at each of the churches in the three parts of the village. A potential force for unity, the three churches ensured that Larton, in fact, remained divided even in worship. All Saints served the Village, St Anne’s served the Rise and St Luke’s, the Dean. Sermons were used to engender rivalry and the lustiness of the worshippers” singing held up as a mark of just how pious, or hypocritical, each congregation was.
As Bowman and Hicks rounded the corner into the pretty churchyard, they were greeted by a throng of people, all pressing at the door to get in. He noticed not a single word was shared between them. Even here, the villagers regarded each other with suspicious eyes, as if every gesture or look had some underlying motive that was not entirely to be trusted. Children were gathered close under protective arms and hands were thrust sullenly into pockets. Bowman let his eyes wander to the church tower and allowed himself a shiver at the thought that a man had, but a few weeks previously, seen fit to end his life by throwing himself from it. It stood, without a steeple, some sixty feet high and was crowned with a flagpole and weather vain.
“Inspector Bowman!” Bowman recognised the voice. Turning from the church, he saw Lor
d Melville limping towards him. “I see you have reinforcements,” he wheezed, pointing to Hicks with his cane. There was no insinuation in his voice, thought Bowman, even though Hicks had been sent as a direct response to Melville’s wire the night before.
“This is Detective Inspector Hicks,” Bowman said, trying to affect a casual air.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Hicks beamed as he drew on his pipe, “Your Lordship.” Bowman did not think he had ever heard him sound so obsequious.
Looking around him, Melville affected a conspiratorial tone. “You have made quite the name for yourself, Inspector Bowman,” he breathed. “I must admit to finding your methods quite impenetrable.”
Bowman thought he heard Hicks guffaw at the remark. Turning to face him, he saw the rotund inspector drawing innocently on his pipe.
“Larton is proving impenetrable,” Bowman insisted. “But I am making progress.”
“In what regard?” Melville fixed him with a penetrating gaze. Bowman remembered the despairing look on Melville’s face at the regatta as he had recovered Graves from the river.
“With regard to Fletcher Cousins. I am certain he did indeed take his own life.”
Melville nodded. “I see. And the other cases? Those of Sharples and Finch?”
“My investigations are ongoing.” Bowman was convinced he could almost feel Hicks rolling his eyes beside him.
“Well, I am sure Inspector Hicks will be of great help.”
Bowman was about to smile when he realised there was no hint of irony about Melville’s assertion. “I am sure he will,” he concurred.
Melville leant over his stick. “You will be interested to hear, no doubt, that Maxwell Trevitt has convened a village meeting on his farm after church.”
“Trevitt?” asked Hicks, just a little too loudly.
“He is the farmer on whose land Cousins was found hanged,” Bowman explained, patiently.
The Body in the Trees Page 15