“Then good riddance to ’em!” called another.
Looking about him, the farmer saw all the evidence of a camp in hasty retreat. The grass and bracken lay flattened where the tents had stood. The ground, dry as it was, was marked with all the signs of hasty activity. Great ruts had been gouged into the dirt where the caravans had been pulled away. Over by the escarpment wall, Trevitt saw a pile of discarded waste. Looking down to the ground, he noticed a thin stick of liquorice root protruding from the earth, its end chewed and misshapen. With a ghastly smile disfiguring his wide face, he took enormous pleasure in grinding it into the ground beneath his boot.
“We’re rid of the filth!” he shouted as he turned, holding his fork high.
A great cheer erupted from the throng in front of him. Several of them spilled into the quarry to confirm the matter with their own eyes.
“Happen they’ll think twice before they return,” called a woman with an improvised cosh. She spat on the ground in disdain.
Trevitt nodded, satisfied. “We have no need of them!” he rounded. “There’s work for you all if you want it. There’s cherries in those trees need picking!”
A silence fell upon the crowd. The man nearest to Trevitt leaned on his spade.
“That’s all very well,” he said slowly. “But I reckon you need us more than we need you.” The crowd around him nodded as one. “We’ll need to talk terms afore we agree to anything.”
Trevitt looked into the throng. Every man and woman before him stared back in defiance. The silence was broken by a call from the back of the crowd.
“Maxwell Trevitt!”
The villagers turned as one to be greeted by the sight of a large, bearded man dressed in a long, ankle length coat and top hat clutching a young boy by the ear. A large lurcher gambolled at their side, sniffing the air excitedly.
“Who’s that?” Hicks heard a woman ask. “And what’s he doin’ with young Tom Cousins?”
“I saw that man with the Scotland Yarder at church this morning.” William Oats stepped out of the crowd, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “And he was at the meeting in the barn.”
“You have some questions to answer, Maxwell Trevitt,” Hicks thundered, his great beard bristling before him.
“What you doin’ with my Tom?”
The crowd turned again to see a middle-aged woman struggling through the undergrowth, a small baby clutched against her breast. Florrie Cousins pushed her way through the throng and squared up to Detective Inspector Hicks. “Who are you?”
The bluff inspector drew himself up to his full height. “I am Detective Inspector Ignatius Hicks,” he announced, biting down on the bit of his pipe. If he had hoped to inspire awe amongst the villagers, he failed. His words were greeted with little more than a snigger from the man leaning on his spade. “And I found this lad setting a fire at Trevitt’s farmhouse,” he concluded. Hicks pushed the boy into the clearing before him. Dog and mother rushed towards the lad, the former licking him excitedly about the face, the other pinching her features into a look of reproach.
“What on earth have you been up to, Tom?” she scolded, lifting the boy to his feet and brushing the dirt from his clothes. The baby in her arms let forth a cry at the sudden movement.
“Setting a fire, eh?” Trevitt scowled. “That boy’s fit for nothing but locking up, inspector.”
“I'll be the judge of that,” Hicks returned, grandly.
“You murdered my father!” Tom ran at the farmer, his fists raised before him.
“Get this animal off me,” Trevitt called to Florrie Cousins. “I had nought to do with Fletcher Cousins’ death.”
“You drove him to it!” Florrie was stomping towards Trevitt, her chin jutting before her in her rage. “And now you’ve condemned us to the workhouse.” Heedless of the small child in her arms, her voice rose in volume as her passions overwhelmed her.
“Seems to me there's only one thing that might drive a man to take his own life, and that’s having a wife like you at home!” Trevitt grinned at his own joke, a wide smile spreading beneath his broken nose. Having heard enough, Tom Cousins made a fist and drove it into Trevitt’s groin, stepping back as the farmer doubled up in pain. A fair number in the crowd laughed out loud at the scene playing out before them. One even shouted encouragement to the young boy with the freckles and unruly hair.
“That’s a boy, Tom, don’t hold back!”
“This man withheld my husband’s pay because the gypsies would not work!” Florrie was appealing to the crowd, “He cannot be trusted!”
“And what of the gypsies, Trevitt?” Hicks raised his voice above the melee. “Did you raise the fire that threatened their camp?”
Trevitt was still catching his breath, his hands held protectively between his legs. “Ask the lad,” he gasped, his eyes rolling back in his head with the pain. “He seems to have a liking for setting fires.”
“Tom?” Florrie Cousins took her son by the shoulders. “Did you set the fire near the gypsy camp?”
There was a silence. The crowd seemed to lean in as one as Tom’s gaze fell to the undergrowth beneath his feet.
“Tom?” Hicks moved a step closer, his arms folded across his great chest.
“I couldn't bear the thought of him hanging there,” Tom said at last. “I want the whole thing gone. Forest, camp, farm and all!” As tears sprung from his eyes, he buried his head in his mother’s breast. Heavy sobs escaped him as his shoulders shook, uncontrollably.
“It’s alright, Tom,” his mother soothed, stroking his hair, “No one was hurt.”
Shaking their heads, the villagers began to disperse. Some threw their tools down on the forest floor, clearly disappointed at the anti-climax. Trudging despondently away, several of them muttered sourly under their breath, throwing suspicious looks at the detective inspector in their midst.
“A shame Scotland Yard gave them warning,” Hicks heard one of them say as they skulked back through the woods towards the Rise. “If it weren’t for them we could have shown Stoker what’s what.”
Inspector Hicks strode forward to clap his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “It seems you’ve caused a lot of bother, young Tom,” he said. “But you saved the gypsies a beating, too.” He turned his attention to the woman at Tom’s side. Rocking from side to side to comfort her baby, she presented a picture of motherhood that was quite lost on Inspector Hicks. “And next time you suspect someone of criminal activity, Mrs Cousins,” he began, stroking his great beard, “might I suggest you look to your own family first?”
With that, Hicks turned his great bulk away to start his journey back down the hill, flailing his arms about him in a vain effort to clear the overhanging twigs in his path.
XX
A Picture Of Health
“An envelope?”
Inspector Bowman was relieved to find Graves sitting up in his bed. As he tucked into a bowl of soup, there was something of his usual demeanour about him. Although his curls hung limp on his head and his skin was sallow, there was a light in his eyes that Bowman recognised. A clean bandage encircled his head, tied delicately at the back and fastened with a pin. Maude had plainly been excelling in her duties.
“With a design on the front like that I saw in Sharples’ cottage.” Bowman stroked his moustache. “The box which contained his revolver bore such a design. Two geometric shapes, one above the other.”
Bowman had pulled the only other chair up to Graves’ bed. A window had been opened to admit such air as there was and, with it, the sounds of the street. Occasionally, a carriage rattled past on some errand, or a child would shout to another across the road. The peaceful scene seemed a world away from the frenetic events of the day before. If it had not been for the wan figure before him, Bowman could easily have believed that they had not happened at all.
“What do you think was in it, sir?” Graves scraped the bottom of the bowl with his spoon, eager to enjoy his soup to the very last drop.
“That, Graves, I do not know.” Bowman leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs before him and clasping his hands behind his head. “But Finch’s demeanour changed almost the moment he read it.”
“Was it a threat, then?”
Bowman chewed his lip. “Or an instruction, perhaps?”
Graves wiped soup from his lips with the back of his hand and placed the bowl on the floor beneath him. “To do what?”
Deep in thought, Bowman sprang to his feet and walked to the window. “I have turned that thought over in my mind again and again,” he sighed. “And there is only one answer I can think of.”
Graves blinked in anticipation as Bowman turned back into the room.
“To kill Trooper Sharples.”
Graves let the inspector’s words sink in. “You think he was commanded to do so?”
Bowman was pacing now, his hands deep in his trouser pockets. “We must assume that Sharples knew his assailant, or why else would he have let him in?”
Graves nodded. “That would seem reasonable enough,” he agreed. “Would Finch have been capable of such a thing?”
Bowman stopped in his tracks. “If he was desperate enough.” He took a breath to collect his thoughts. “Mrs Finch told me how Erasmus had overreached himself when he moved with his wife to the Village. The rent was much higher and they were reliant on a second income from Mrs Finch’s employment at Larton Manor.” He spread his hands before him. “When she was dismissed from her work on a trumped up charge and Lord Melville raised the rent even higher by way of punishment, Erasmus Finch was at a loss.”
“So you think Finch killed Sharples for financial gain?”
“I believe he was offered financial relief in exchange for Sharples’ death.”
“But why?” Graves lifted himself higher against his pillows until he was sitting bolt upright, keen to follow Bowman’s train of thought. “Who would have made him such an offer?”
After a pause, Bowman loped heavily across the room to sit on the bed beside his sergeant. Although he was relieved to see Graves somewhat recovered from his ordeal, he could not shake a feeling of guilt at his companion's condition. It was a feeling he had grown quite used to.
“Sergeant Graves,” he began, quietly, “what do you know of the Freemasons?”
Graves raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I know that they’re a secret society. I’ve heard talk of strange ceremonies and such like, but no real details. Lodges, they call ’em. They’re rather difficult to get to the bottom of.” He rubbed at his eyes with a hand. “Some say they’re intent on infiltrating our most esteemed institutions, Scotland Yard among them.”
“Then you know as much as I,” Bowman nodded. “They make use of certain designs as part of their ceremonies, chief among them, that of the square and compass. It may be seen on various buildings in London if you care to look.”
“And you’re saying such a society exists here?” Graves eyes were wide.
Bowman leaned in, conspiratorially. “They exist everywhere, Graves.” There was something about the look on Bowman’s face that gave Graves pause. He noticed a wild look about the inspector’s eyes, his gaunt features set in an expression of intense desperation. As he held his hands before him imploringly, Graves saw a familiar tremor had returned to Bowman's fingers. He looked away sadly as the inspector rose from the bed, placing his hand back in a pocket to conceal the trembling.
“But who would want Sharples dead? You said yourself he had only been in Larton for a few months.”
Bowman stood at the mantelpiece, his foot kicking absently against the metal grate. “Sharples moved here from Windsor, his army days long done. After years of destitution, hanging on to such personal belongings as he could, he was offered an almshouse in Larton Dean. Let’s suppose he was a Freemason, as evidenced by the design I saw on his display box. What, do you suppose, would be his first course of action upon arriving here?”
“To seek out a local lodge?”
“Precisely. He attended a local meeting, the same night that Erasmus Finch received his envelope. The following day he was dead.”
“So Finch received the envelope after the meeting?”
“His widow said he returned from an evening at The King’s Head to find it beneath his door.” Bowman turned dramatically. “I suspect he had actually been at the Lodge meeting, too.”
“Finch was a Freemason?” Graves whistled through his teeth at the implications.
Bowman nodded. “And so bound to carry out the instructions in that envelope. To kill Sharples.”
“But the papers say he was shot by his own hand,” Graves said in exasperation. “And by his own gun. If that is not so, then what is the truth of the matter?”
Bowman turned to face his companion square on. “I suspect the answer to that, Sergeant Graves, lies beyond the confines of Larton.”
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden commotion at the door.
“Get off me!”
Bowman shared a look with Graves, both recognising the shrill voice from the landing. The door was flung open on its hinges and Maude spilled into the room, carrying a fresh jug of water in both hands. She squirmed and writhed as she stood, scowling at the great beast who even now pinched her about the waist.
“Hicks!” Sergeant Graves exclaimed in surprise.
Hicks cleared his throat, suddenly aware of his fellow detectives. “Sergeant Graves,” he bellowed in a voice far too loud for the room, “I trust you are recovering sufficiently?”
“I am well enough to put up a fight to protect a lady’s honour, Inspector Hicks,” Graves scowled from his sickbed.
“What news?” Bowman asked impatiently, advancing on the portly inspector.
“In short, Bowman,” Hicks began, clearly relishing being the centre of attention, “the gypsies were gone before the villagers could set about them.”
“So that was the purpose of Trevitt’s meeting?” Bowman asked in disbelief.
“He raised their hackles good and proper, but the gypsies had moved on before they had their chance.”
“And the fire?”
“All the work of Fletcher Cousins’ lad.” Hicks drew his pipe from a pocket. “He admitted as much.”
“Poor boy,” sighed Graves. “He lost his childhood when he lost his father. I saw him at the Cousins’ house when I interviewed Florrie.”
“That’s no excuse to burn the wood down.” Hicks struck a match against the mantelpiece and puffed at his pipe, filling the room with a noxious fug in a matter of moments.
“Grief is a funny thing, Inspector Hicks,” Graves mused. “It can lead to many strange behaviours.” Suddenly embarrassed at his remarks, he cast a furtive glance to Bowman. The inspector looked away, swallowing hard.
“Then he was the figure I saw in the woods,” Bowman said quickly. “Watching Trevitt and I at the tree where his father died.”
“His widow was keen to blame the farmer for his death,” Hicks blustered.
“Maxwell Trevitt is hardly a man of spotless character,” Bowman’s mind flashed back to the bruises he had seen on Mrs Trevitt’s arms. “But he is no murderer. It is a sad fact that Fletcher Cousins felt driven to take his own life.”
“How he could leave his wife and two children to fend for themselves is quite beyond me,” Hicks announced, puffing fitfully at his pipe.
“None of us knows the true state of another man’s mind,” Bowman cautioned. He walked again to the window. “In the midst of all this drama,” he sighed, “from yesterday’s regatta to the march on the gypsy camp, it seems the villagers have quite forgotten the deaths in their midst. Perhaps that’s exactly what the murderer would wish.”
“Larton seems just the place for such a man to hide,” Graves offered from his sickbed. “A village so at odds with itself that Sharples and Finch can die almost without comment and be forgotten so quickly.”
“Not by us, Sergeant Graves.” Bowman’s frown cut deep into his forehead as he thought.
“But where do the answers lie, Bowman?” Hicks shrugged.
There was a pause as Bowman turned from the window. “Not in Larton,” he mused aloud.
“Then, where?” Hicks scoffed.
“Erasmus Finch was sent to kill a man who had only been resident in Larton for some three months or so. Perhaps the answers lie further back.” Suddenly galvanised, Bowman retrieved his hat and jacket from the foot of Graves’ bed. “Inspector Hicks, I would ask you to call upon Mrs Prudence Finch of Newman’s Cottages.”
“She would have had her fill of Scotland Yard by the end of the day,” Graves smirked.
“Perhaps,” Bowman smiled, pleased at his sergeant’s return to form. “But if Sharples was shot with Finch’s gun and not his own, then that weapon must have been concealed somewhere.” He turned to Hicks. “Find it.”
“And where will you go?” Hicks drew back the folds of his coat and placed his hands in his pockets.
“To the place where the story begins,” Bowman called over his shoulder as he moved to the door in haste. “To Windsor Barracks.”
XXI
Enlightenment
The Sunday train to Windsor was a stopping service that necessitated a change at Slough. Bowman was relieved to have a carriage to himself throughout most of the journey, the exception being the appearance of an old woman at Burnham who dropped shells to the floor from the seat opposite as she demolished a bag of walnuts. Bowman fought hard to avoid her eye. The fields and woodland rolled past as the inspector gave himself up to the gentle roll of the carriage. There were few people at work on a Sunday, but Bowman saw couples and families out for country walks and riders on horseback traversing the lanes. A gang of youths had made camp by the railway line, whooping and laughing as the train whistled its approach.
Soon enough, Windsor loomed large on the horizon. The train curled round to head straight for the castle in so direct a fashion, Bowman was sure he would disembark within its precincts. As it was, the great beast hissed and spat its way to a halt at a platform some hundred yards from the castle, but near enough that Bowman could see the Royal Standard hanging limp in the still air. Her Majesty was at home. As he stepped from the carriage into the heat of the evening, Bowman wondered for a moment if she might have any idea at all that he had averted a tragedy on board the royal yacht only a matter of weeks before.
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