“And, local gossip would have it, is responsible for the fire in the gypsy camp last night.” Melville shook his head.
“Has such a meeting happened before?”
“Never,” Melville shrugged. “But the village has had its interest piqued. I have no doubt that there will be a great many in attendance.”
“Then what are the reasons behind the meeting?” Hicks tried his very best to give the impression of being deep in thought.
“Some say he is to deliver a public confession, others a denial.”
“Then it is as well that we should be there,” Bowman nodded to Hicks.
“Undoubtedly,” Hicks agreed, puffing on his pipe. With that, Lord Melville tipped his hat and returned to his wife and children on the path.
The two inspectors joined the throng at the entrance and soon passed under the plain portico above the church door to find themselves standing in the stone nave. The air, chilled by the thick stonework, caught in Bowman’s throat and he instinctively pulled his shirt collar tighter around his neck. Looking up, he saw the interior of the roof was criss-crossed with a lattice of wooden rafters. To his left and right, beyond original Norman arches, later side extensions allowed for smaller chapels and anterooms. On the south wall, tombs stood in recesses in the stonework, ornate likenesses carved into their sides. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Bowman saw the walls were punctuated at intervals with coats of arms, carvings and busts to Larton’s more celebrated luminaries. As they made their way to an empty pew, Bowman saw that both he and Hicks were afforded a wide berth by the villagers. Despite the size of the congregation and the lack of space, it soon became apparent that they were to sit alone. Hicks looked around to see that certain of the congregation would clearly prefer to stand at the back of the church rather than join the two detectives in their pew. Glancing back to Bowman, he shot him a look of accusation.
“Just what have you done, Bowman?”
Bowman let the question go, preferring instead to point out those he knew to his portly companion. Among them, he noticed Prescott the driver and the gardener he had seen at Larton Manor. Lord Melville cast a reproachful eye in Bowman’s direction as he passed to his place among the pews. The inspector did his best to appear as though he had not noticed, though he feared the blush that rose upon his cheek gave him away. He pointed out the diminutive footman who had met them at the manor’s door and several of the drinkers he had seen in the bar at The King’s Head on his first night, among them Jenks, the man who had given Maude such trouble. Hicks nodded absently. As he cast his eyes across the congregation, Bowman caught sight of Greville Whitlock. He stood at the back of the church in conversation with the vicar, stretching his shining head up to the rector’s ear. Seeing the inspector, he raised a hand in greeting, his eyes twinkling amiably. Bowman settled back in his seat, determined to avoid the sly looks from the villagers, the accusatory glances from his companion and the judgement of the figure on the cross above the altar.
All Saints was presided over by the Reverend Proudfoot. From his vicarage to the church, he had only to walk a short length of path but, often, even this was a challenge. Proudfoot was known for his love of drink and would often declaim from the pulpit while clearly in his cups. He was a tall, angular man of late middle age with wild looking eyes and a shock of hair to match. A pot belly was accentuated by his cassock so that he looked for all the world as if he was, miracle of miracles, with child. The subject of many a joke by the parishioners, he was, nonetheless, a fearful speaker and commanded attention with ease. His basso profundo reverberated to the great oak beams that traversed the roof of the church and seemed to make the very pews beneath them quake with fear. In the throes of his sermonising, his bony hands would reach before him as if into the afterlife itself and his eyes would roll to the heavens as though he alone had access to their secrets.
The organ music that had been playing quietly as the congregation filed in suddenly ceased. There was a moment of pregnant expectancy and suddenly a great fanfare rose from the pipes behind them. Recognising the signal, the faithful rose as one to their feet, clearing their throats and straightening their clothes about themselves. Furtive glances were cast up the aisle to where a modest procession had begun its progress through the church. The Reverend Proudfoot was accompanied by a curate, and each was dressed in the black and white robes of their calling. The curate carried a golden crucifix before him, wearing an expression somewhere between solemnity and haughtiness that seemed to come naturally. Proudfoot trod carefully behind him, his ruddy face and bulbous nose already flushed from the little wine he had allowed himself in the vestry. Behind him walked half a dozen young boys dressed in the white vestments of the choir. Their faces shone in the dim light and they giggled as they caught each other’s eye. Their hair was parted in the middle of their heads and combed tidily down to their ears. It was clearly something of a joke between them that they should be presented so smartly once a week, and Bowman hazarded a guess that if he were to meet them outside the church on an ordinary day, he should not recognise them. Each held a hymnbook in their hands and scanned the congregation for their family and friends.
The organ played ‘Guide Me O Thou Great Jehovah’ as the little party progressed through the church, diverging at the altar to find their places; the choir to the western side of the chancel and the curate and priest to the end of the nave by the north transept. There stood a large, raised lectern reached by six or seven wooden steps. It stood before a pillar on which hung an oak board displaying the numbers of the hymns to be sung that morning. As the music stopped, there came the sound of shuffling feet and rustling clothes as the congregation sat once more. A silence descended. All eyes fell upon Proudfoot as he reached the steps to the lectern. There was much interest as to how he would manage his ascent considering his condition. Reaching out his bony hands from beneath the folds of his robes, he clutched at the short banister that had been fixed to one side. Heaving himself slowly up, he stopped at each step to steady himself, swaying slightly as he stood like a sapling in a breeze. Bowman was sure he heard a giggle from one of the pews. Looking at his companion, he saw Inspector Hicks was taking the proceedings with the utmost seriousness, his great beard resting on his chest as he contemplated the hymnbook in his hand.
At last, Proudfoot was in his eyrie and the congregation fell to a fearful hush beneath his castigating eye. Gripping the lectern with both hands, Reverend Proudfoot leaned his weight against the wooden structure, scanning the congregation with an imperious gaze. Bowman fancied his eye fell upon him. Proudfoot paused with just a hint of a smile playing about his wet, fleshy lips.
“In the parables, Jesus says the Kingdom of God will be given to a people that will produce its fruit.” Proudfoot let the words settle upon the upturned faces below. “There was a landowner who planted a vineyard, put a hedge around it and built a tower. Then he leased it to tenants and went on a journey.” The reverend’s voice was rich and textured. It carried with it a natural authority. It was, in short, a voice that demanded to be listened to. “When vintage time drew near,” he continued, “the landowner sent his servants to the tenants to obtain his produce.” Proudfoot made a fist of his hand. “But the tenants seized the servants. One they beat, another they killed, and a third they stoned.” He brought his fist down on the wooden lectern as if to illustrate the force of the beatings. “The landowner sent other servants, more numerous than the first, but they treated them in the same way.” Proudfoot sucked in air between his teeth. “Finally, he sent his son to them, thinking, ‘They will respect my son.’ But when the tenants saw the son, they said to one another, ‘This is the heir. Come, let us kill him and acquire his inheritance.’” Proudfoot paused, aware of the drama in his tale. The very air in the church seemed to crackle with expectation. “They seized him,” he declaimed as he reached for a crescendo, “threw him out of the vineyard, and killed him.”
The congregation sat perfectly still in their pews, awaiting th
e denouement.
“A parable is a lesson, an opportunity to learn of God’s wisdom.” Proudfoot leaned towards the congregation and lowered his voice as if revealing a truth heretofore unknown for the benefit of their ears only. “In the parable of the tenants, it is written that those who come among us are our enemies. They seek to overturn our ways, to disrupt the lives we lead. God punishes those who would interfere.”
Proudfoot’s eyes again came to rest on Bowman, and the inspector sensed several of the villagers turn to glare in his direction.
“I say to them, the Kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that will produce its fruit.”
Now all heads were turned to face the two detectives. They sat alone on their pew, suddenly uncomfortable in the full force of the villagers’ gaze. The implication in Proudfoot’s sermon was clear. Suddenly, Bowman was afraid.
“We will now sing hymn number five hundred and fifty two,” Proudfoot concluded. “Judge Eternal, Throned In Splendour.”
As the congregation rose as one to their feet, the organ struck up the opening bars of the hymn. Clearly oblivious to the implicit threat in the vicar’s sermon, Inspector Ignatius Hicks joined them, throwing his head back to lead in the singing with such gusto that many in the congregation turned their heads in surprise and those nearest him covered their ears for fear of being rendered deaf.
The service over, the Reverend Proudfoot stood at the door with a collection box. Worshippers were confronted with the rattle of the box and the faintest scent of alcohol as they filed back out through the door. Very few made any donation at all, though Bowman saw Lord Melville making great play of depositing a guinea through the slot cut into the lid. Once through the doors, the children ran among the gravestones until reprimanded by their parents. Bowman kept his eyes to the path as he exited, leaving Inspector Hicks to throw a coin into the box for them both.
“I do hope your sergeant is recovering.” The inspector looked up to see Greville Whitlock standing with Constable Corrigan, sheltering from the sun beneath the shade of a large yew tree.
“He is,” Bowman replied. “Your ministrations have proven to be most efficacious.”
“And this is his replacement?” Constable Corrigan looked Inspector Hicks up and down as he approached.
“This is Greville Whitlock, Inspector Hicks,” Bowman announced to his bluff companion. Curiously, Bowman noticed Whitlock look behind him.
“Then you will be assisting Detective Inspector Bowman?” Corrigan asked of Hicks. Out of his police uniform, he seemed a much smaller man.
Bowman looked around at the departing crowds. As they made their way between the graves, many of them paused to look back at the lean inspector with the moustache, even having the audacity to go so far as to point and snigger in his direct eye line. When he spoke at last, it was with a voice distinctly lacking in confidence.
“Sergeant Graves is recovering well enough, but I am reaching a crucial point in my investigations.” He was aware of Whitlock’s eyes boring into him. “Inspector Hicks is just the man to help bring them to a conclusion.”
“He believes the soldier was murdered,” Hicks interjected without prompting. “Though the evidence is scanty, to say the least.” Bowman could hardly believe the nerve of the man. Hicks stood, his hands on his hips, puffing at his pipe. Whitlock did his best to suppress a smile.
“I am to turn my attention to the death of Erasmus Finch today,” Bowman explained.
“Ah, yes,” breathed Whitlock. “A tragic case, indeed.” He glanced up to the tower as he spoke. “What could possess a man to throw himself from a church tower?”
“What, indeed?” Hicks scoffed.
“That is what I intend to find out.” Bowman was eager for the conversation to be over, and eager to be rid of Hicks.
“But what is there to investigate?” Whitlock asked innocently, his wide moustache parting to reveal a kindly smile. “It cannot have been anything but self-murder, as I found in my report. You think it possible he was dragged up there and thrown off?”
“It is my place to consider all eventualities, Mr Whitlock,” Bowman replied, suddenly distracted. “The better to arrive at a conclusion. Would you excuse me?”
Darting up the path, Bowman left the men to their speculations. Inspector Hicks rolled his eyes at his companion’s retreating back. “Inspector Bowman is somewhat erratic in his methods.” Drawing deep on his pipe, Hicks shook his head. He clearly thought to have a method at all was dangerously avant garde.
Bowman was grateful for the diversion. As Whitlock proclaimed his incredulity at Bowman’s findings, the inspector had noticed a familiar face amongst the crowd, weaving their way through the cemetery gate and out to the road beyond. Phelps, the shopkeeper, stomped away from the church, clearly losing patience with the gaggle of children that ran alongside him. A young woman in a long summer dress with a high neckline walked a pace or two behind, trying to rein in the children as best she could. The rolled up parasol she carried over her shoulder proved to be the perfect implement to keep them in line.
“Mr Phelps,” panted Bowman as he caught up with them at last. Phelps turned to him in surprise.
“Mary,” he leered, his teeth protruding at an alarming angle, “this is the inspector I was telling you about.” The young woman looked the inspector up and down, plainly unimpressed with what she saw. She gave a surly nod.
“Be quick, whatever you’ve got to say,” she grumbled to her husband. “We’ve got to see what Trevitt has to say.”
Phelps rolled his eyes. “What did you think of the sermon, inspector?” he leered. Bowman chose to ignore the question and the note of amusement in the man’s voice.
“Mr Phelps, I wish to talk to Erasmus Finch’s widow. Do you know where I might find her?”
“He knows where to find her,” Mrs Phelps interjected, brandishing her parasol at her husband. “Every man in the village knows where to find her.” She jabbed Phelps in the shoulder as she spoke.
“Leave me be, woman!” Phelps squealed, rubbing at the wound with nicotine-stained fingers. He turned again to the inspector. “How is your young sergeant?” Again, there was a note of amusement behind the words.
“Recovering,” replied Bowman, simply. His eyes flicked involuntarily across the road to The King’s Head and the window that he knew gave into Graves’ room.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Phelps attempted a friendly smile. “Just shows what can happen when you pry into matters that don’t concern you.”
“An address, please,” Bowman breathed. He looked around them as he spoke. Once again he noticed people actively avoiding him, even going so far as to cross the road so as not to be approached. Phelps was shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly feeling uncomfortable at being seen to be in cahoots with a Scotland Yarder.
“He knows it well enough,” bellowed his wife. “He’s made enough deliveries to her door, and overstayed his welcome, too.” She gave him another prod with her parasol.
Phelps was now the butt of the joke, a position with which he was clearly painfully familiar. Bowman heard sniggers around him.
“She lives in yon cottages,” the shopkeeper said quickly, eager to bring the conversation to an end. “Number Three.”
“And tell the witch to get stuffed from me,” Mrs Phelps pointed her parasol at Bowman, causing the inspector to step back in the road to avoid her.
“Watch yer step, filth,” seethed an old man in a cloth cap and torn jacket. As the Phelps family continued along the path to the shop, one of their children turned from the line to poke out his tongue at the inspector, a look of disdainful insolence on his face.
Turning to the cottages Phelps had mentioned, Bowman saw Inspector Hicks striding from the churchyard.
“Hicks,” Bowman began as he approached, “I have a matter to attend to.” He smoothed his moustache between his finger and thumb as he spoke. “Perhaps it would be best if you went to Trevitt’s meeting alone. I
am too well known.”
“You have certainly made quite the impression, Bowman, I will grant you that,” Hicks boomed.
“Question him with regard to the blaze in Chalk Wood. He has never hidden his antipathy towards the gypsies there.” Bowman slapped at a fly on his neck. “Meet me at The King’s Head when you are done. I wish to check on Graves before we proceed any further.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” Hicks said, airily. “I’m sure the lass is giving him her full attention.” He gave Bowman a salacious wink that, given the circumstances, the inspector found most distasteful. He grabbed at Hicks’ sleeve as the portly inspector moved away.
“Trust no one, Hicks,” Bowman cautioned, his eyes narrowing as he looked up and down the street. Hicks regarded him with wary eyes and nodded slowly. The words were barely out of his mouth before Bowman realised that perhaps the person he should trust least of all was Hicks. He had no doubt the inspector had been sent as much to keep an eye on him as conclude the investigation. A cold sweat pricked suddenly at his back. Was Hicks intent on sabotage? It would certainly suit him if Bowman were to fail. He could imagine the bluff inspector even now, standing before the commissioner to take full credit for the closing of the case. Lord Melville would undoubtedly commend him to his old friend. A promotion would inevitably ensue. Bowman grit his teeth. He had often found Hicks a hindrance in his investigations, but had never considered that he would prove a wilful obstruction. He might well be in league with the people of Larton, Bowman thought with a lurch. He looked around at the villagers as they filed past, each on their way to Trevitt’s mysterious meeting. Perhaps they were to discuss the obtrusive inspector and what should be done about him. Was Graves just the start? Was Hicks working with them? Perhaps matters went to the very top and even the commissioner was implicated. Bowman had often felt a thorn in the Yard’s side. It would serve many people if he was discredited, not least the portly inspector before him.
The Body in the Trees Page 16