Bowman craned his neck to view the picture in the poor light offered by the stained glass window. It held maybe twenty men in total, just a fraction of those who had fought at El Teb. With a shudder, the inspector wondered just how many had returned. With reference to the small plaque beneath, Bowman was able to pinpoint Trooper Sharples with ease. Standing proudly in his uniform, he held the reins of the horse beside him. Sharples was possessed of a long, aquiline face and a pair of prodigious mutton chop side-whiskers. He looked lean and strong, the very epitome of the British soldier. Whoever would have thought, mused Bowman, that within ten years of this photograph being taken, Trooper Sharples would be found dead not on the battlefield, but on the floor of an almshouse in Larton Dean?
Glancing down again, Bowman searched for the name ‘Talbot’ on the inscription. It seemed he was the officer on the horse beside Sharples. Looking back at the picture, Bowman caught his breath. There, sitting proudly astride his charger, his curved scimitar held aloft beside him, sat a very familiar figure indeed.
Quite unexpectedly, Bowman found Prescott waiting for him on the platform at Larton. As the train heaved into the station, the inspector noticed Prescott’s polished landau standing in the forecourt. The two black mares stood pawing at the ground in their impatience while the driver leaned nonchalantly against the rear wheels, his lean features angled to the train as it arrived. He stood almost to attention as Bowman rounded the corner from the platform.
“Inspector Bowman,” Prescott began, his rural drawl seeming all the stronger after Bowman’s time at the barracks, “Lord Melville asks that you visit him at Larton Manor.” Prescott opened the door to his carriage as he spoke. “He said to say he has some information that might prove useful in your investigations.”
Bowman broke his stride to consider the proposition. Stepping gingerly to the carriage, he lifted his boot to the footplate. It was at that moment, just as he heaved himself aboard, that he felt the cosh on his head, a splitting pain across his skull and the rapid approach of a profound darkness as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Detective Inspector Ignatius Hicks had allowed himself a little lunch before commencing his enquiries at Newman’s Cottages. Leaving Sergeant Graves to sleep, he had prevailed upon Maude for a bowl of steaming soup and a pie from the oven. His appetite sated, Hicks hoisted his bulk from the chair and stepped from The King’s Head to the street beyond. It was eerily quiet. The searing heat, he guessed, was keeping people indoors to enjoy their day of rest. Within minutes he was sweating. His heavy coat clung to his back and his neck was wet beneath his beard. Approaching the cottages, he rested at the gate to catch his breath. There was no sign of anyone being at home. With a little luck, he thought to himself, he would be back at The King’s Head within minutes to enjoy an ale or two and the company of the barmaid.
Peering through the window, Hicks could see right through the small parlour to the lean-to kitchen and the garden beyond. There, he saw a flurry of activity through the glass. Mrs Finch was at work upon her plot. Looking about him, Hicks took the path around the front of the cottages to the gardens that lay to the rear.
The terrace of low buildings sat amongst a small area of scrubland that had been fenced in for a large, shared garden. Beds of dry earth were arranged with brittle flowers, bending in the heat for lack of water. As he trod along the grass verge that separated the beds, Hicks saw a demure looking young woman, still clearly in her Sunday dress. Improbably, she was squatting on her haunches, digging a small hole in the dirt with a trowel. Beside her lay a small tin box, such as might contain biscuits or confectionary.
The young lady looked up in alarm as Hicks’ sheer girth blocked the sun from her work and she was plunged into sudden shade.
“I do not wish to alarm you,” Hicks said as gently as he could. “I am Inspector Hicks from Scotland Yard.”
The inspector noticed the young woman managed to look both confused and guilty at the same time. “I have spoken to your colleague just earlier this afternoon,” she stammered. Her eyes flicked involuntarily to the tin box at her side.
“Mrs Finch?” Hicks asked, innocently, “might I ask why you are working in your garden in your Sunday best?”
Slowly, the woman stood, shaking the dust from her skirts. Mrs Finch let her trowel fall to the dirt and bent to retrieve the box. Even Hicks, not usually so sensitive to the fairer sex, noticed her bottom lip beginning to quiver.
“Inspector Hicks,” she began, faintly, a tear springing to her eye. “I am afraid Erasmus did a terrible thing.”
She passed the tin with trembling hands, and Hicks lifted the lid on its rusty hinges. There, laid upon a quantity of newspaper, was a gentleman’s revolver.
XXII
A Baptism
Bowman felt like he was drowning. Gagging, he swung his head violently to one side. Attempting to raise his hands to his mouth, he discovered they were tied to the arms of the chair on which he sat. His feet were secured to each other.
“Don’t worry, inspector,” came a familiar voice, “I have administered a mild sedative, that is all.” There was even a note of concern. “For the pain.”
Bowman fought against the numbing of his senses. He recalled the knock to his head as he had boarded Melville’s coach. “Prescott?” he breathed, trying to focus his eyes on the room about him.
“Yes,” came the voice again. “He is proving a very useful initiate. He was even diligent enough to follow you to Windsor.” Bowman could see Melville’s driver standing in the shadows of an alcove, leaning nonchalantly against the wall. He looked for all the world as if he was waiting for a train at Larton Station. He played with a match between his teeth. “He is not plagued by self doubt as Erasmus Finch was,” the voice continued. “He proved to be most bothersome.”
“Where am I?” Bowman croaked.
“You should consider yourself honoured, inspector. Only those dedicated to the Craft are permitted entry here.” Bowman looked around the room in which he was held. A vaulted ceiling loomed down at him from the darkness. Here and there, strange symbols were etched onto the walls, one of which he most certainly recognised; the square and compass. Three other ornate chairs were placed at the cardinal points of the compass. The air was cool, leading the inspector to believe he must be underground. In all, it had the feel of a Holy place.
“You are even seated in the east. The Grand Master’s place.”
“Where am I?” Bowman repeated with force. Despite the sedative, his vision was beginning to clear. As he focussed on the alcove before him, he could see a figure, resolving itself in the gloom. As it stepped from the shadows, the diminutive figure allowed himself a genial smile, his steel wire spectacles glinting in the candlelight.
“Welcome,” he said with a leer, “to the Larton Lodge of the Masonic Brotherhood.”
Bowman writhed in his seat. “Greville Whitlock,” he hissed.
Whitlock smiled, quite benignly. “It is a strange thing, Inspector Bowman. I have gone by that name for almost a decade, and yet still it takes me by surprise.” He gave a chuckle.
Bowman thought back to his meeting with Whitlock outside the church that morning. For a moment, as he had introduced Inspector Hicks, the coroner had seemed distracted as the inspector mentioned his name.
“I have a theory, inspector,” Whitlock was intoning, “that identity is malleable. In short, we are who we choose to be.”
Bowman felt his head reeling. “Just as you chose to abandon your fellow soldiers at El Teb?”
The coroner threw back his head, his bald pate reflecting the light of the candles. “You are quite mistaken,” he laughed. “That was Corporal Joseph Talbot.”
“You are one and the same.”
“Not so!” There was a sudden steel to Whitlock’s voice. “Joseph Talbot died on the sands at El Teb, just as Greville Whitlock was born. I am reinvented.”
“As a murderer.”
There was a pause as Whitlock turned away. “That is most
unfortunate,” he whispered. Bowman was struck at the wide variances in the man’s demeanour. It worried him. “I was the victim of a dreadful happenstance, that is all.”
“You are a wanted man.” The inspector started to pull at his bindings, flexing the muscles in his wrists to loosen the ties. Suddenly, Whitlock turned. Had he noticed?
“No, inspector.” A wide grin spread across his face. “I am a respected pillar of the community. Isn't it delicious?”
“Why Larton?” Bowman blinked. Either as a result of the drugs he had been administered, or the twine that bound his feet, he found he couldn’t feel his legs.
Whitlock was pacing the length of the room, like some caged beast. “I had spent years in fear of discovery, but here I could hide in plain sight. My late wife brought me here in her final years. It seemed perfect. In Larton, I found a village in a constant state of conflict. The villagers are too busy looking over their shoulders to look too closely at me, an educated man risen to the position of coroner. I am beyond reproach.” He paused at another of the four chairs in the room. “You would be surprised how far a little medical knowledge and some forged documents may take a man. In three short years, I was able to inveigle my way into every corner of the village. While their petty squabbles continued, I could thrive, the still waters beneath the swell. The Larton Lodge provided me with the perfect refuge. I could be protected.”
A sudden dread ran cold through Bowman’s spine. “Why are you telling me all this so freely?”
Greville Whitlock took his time with his response. Walking slowly to where Bowman sat, helpless, he leaned in close to the inspector’s ear; so close, Bowman could feel the coroner’s hot breath upon his neck. “Because tonight, inspector,” he could tell Whitlock was smiling, “you are going to take your own life.”
The moment seemed to hang in the air. Despite the sedative, Bowman’s heart began to race. “The Lodge was dormant when I arrived,” Whitlock continued, suddenly conversational. “I schooled myself in the Craft and placed myself at its head. From deserter to Grand Master. You see, inspector? We can be who we choose to be.”
Bowman flicked his eyes to Prescott. If he was surprised or alarmed by anything Whitlock was saying, he chose not to show it. Instead, he continued to chew on his matchstick in the manner of one wholly bored with proceedings.
Bowman realised only time could save him. With time, he could loosen his bonds and stand a chance. “Then Trooper Sharples came to Larton,” he elucidated, remembering the design on the trooper’s display box. “A Freemason himself, he sought out the local Lodge. He recognised you from the campaign at El Teb.”
Whitlock nodded, almost sadly. “I was certain he would report me to the authorities,” he sighed. “He could not live, but I could not be seen to act.”
Bowman could feel the twine around his right wrist was loosening. Whether it would ever be loose enough to slip his hand through or, indeed, what he would do then, he could not tell. “So you sent Finch to make an end of the matter.”
The coroner puffed out his cheeks in a gesture of despair. “He was a recent initiate in need of testing,” he shrugged. “He was found wanting.”
Bowman heard a chuckle from Prescott in his alcove, then turned back to face Whitlock. His vision was blurring again now.
“What did you promise him?
Whitlock spread his hands wide as if the answer was obvious. “What any man truly craves. Advancement.”
“And financial gain?” Bowman had managed to move his hand so that his knuckles were almost passing through the binding.
“Not so!” There was that note, again, Bowman noticed. For a murderer, Greville Whitlock possessed an unerringly thin skin. The coroner calmed himself before continuing. “But Finch became a liability. To assuage his guilt, he demanded payment where I had promised none. Even though he threatened to expose me, I refused.”
Bowman nodded to himself. Mrs Finch had mentioned her husband had disappeared frequently following Sharples” death. He had clearly been imploring Whitlock for payment.
“Finally, at our next meeting, I cut him loose, barred him from the Brotherhood. It seems he could not live with my decision or his conscience.”
Bowman’s hand was almost through the twine. He started to work upon his other wrist now, turning his forearm slowly this way and that in an effort to loosen the ties. “He jumped from the church tower the very next day.”
“A grand irony, inspector,” Whitlock announced, “That two of the three deaths you were called to investigate were the result of self-murder. Just as I recorded in my coroner’s report.”
“But, Sharples.” For a moment, Bowman met Whitlock’s eye and ceased his struggling for fear of being caught.
“Yes,” Whitlock breathed, suddenly distant. “Sharples. He has proved to be my undoing.”
Bowman leaned in slightly where he sat, eager to keep Whitlock talking. “Perhaps that is his revenge for your desertion at El Teb.”
Suddenly, Whitlock was all fury. He lurched forward, grabbing the arms to Bowman’s chair with such force the inspector was sure he was about to break them off. “I was not at El Teb!” the coroner roared, spittle flying from his mouth. His outwardly affable demeanour had slipped entirely and Bowman thought, in that moment, he was seeing the truth of the man. Whitlock seemed suddenly aware that he had lost control. Standing again, he straightened his spectacles and continued. “Joseph Talbot fought in those sands,” he said, carefully. “He spent three months in the heat, evading capture. He underwent such horrors as can never be understood by those who choose a civilian life.” Bowman felt he was implicated in the remark. “Joseph Talbot was a broken man, in spirit and body. If he was captured he would be put to death.” Whitlock lowered himself onto the ornate chair opposite Bowman as he spoke. “Finally, he found passage at Trinkitat on the Red Sea coast, begging for food and charity.” The inspector thought of Trooper Fenton at Windsor Station. “To evade death or the life of a fugitive, one option remained. He had left Combermere Barracks as Joseph Talbot. He must leave the desert as Greville Whitlock.”
Bowman was aghast. Was it possible that a man may subdivide his very nature to become something new? Can he leave the past behind to rise, Phoenix-like from the ashes of his experiences?
“I thrived. I even married, though that did not last. Imagine reinventing yourself anew, inspector.” Whitlock was drawing near again, his eyes blazing behind his steel wire spectacles. “Sloughing off your old skin like a snake to emerge a new man.” He raised a knowing eyebrow. “Do you not find that attractive?”
Bowman stretched against his bindings. He knew it was no use, now. The feeling of paralysis was spreading from his legs and up his body. “What do you intend?” A note of panic was rising in his voice.
Whitlock looked upon him as a kindly uncle might look upon a child. “You have provided me with your perfect end, inspector, and I thank you for it.”
Bowman blinked, confused.
“The whole of Larton knows you for a troubled man. Your collapse at The King’s Head is quite the talk of the village.” Whitlock leaned in again, staring deep into Bowman’s eyes. “Given your condition, do you think it would surprise anyone if you were found to have taken your own life?”
Bowman writhed where he sat, straining his feet against the twine that bound them. He could barely move his chest to breathe.
“Oh, I wouldn’t concern yourself,” the coroner soothed. “The drug won’t kill you. It is a calmative only. And, of course, I shall find no evidence of it in my report.” Bowman breathed hard. “What would one more suicide mean in Larton?” Whitlock continued, his head cocked to one side. He seemed to observe Bowman with detachment, as one might view an experiment or a test case. “It would barely be remarked upon. I sense you would even welcome it, inspector.” Again, he leaned in close to Bowman’s ear. “Perhaps it would be a blessing.”
Bowman suddenly felt Whitlock slip a gag around his head. He struggled against it, trying in vain to
spit it from his mouth, the coarse material leaving a foul, metallic taste. Attempting a scream, he was suddenly aware of another sound in the air, distant and dreamlike. As Whitlock tied the gag around his head, Bowman was sure he could hear singing.
“Prescott!” Whitlock barked, and the driver sprang forward to loose the inspector’s bonds. Bowman’s legs and arms felt heavy as lead. Try as he might, he could not marshal them. Panic rising within him, he felt himself lifted from his chair by the two men. As one, they shuffled across the floor with their leaden cargo. With mounting horror, Bowman realised he was entirely in their thrall and quite unable to move.
The strains of Praise My Soul, The King Of Heaven drifted on the still air. Blinking into the light, Bowman suddenly knew exactly where he was. The two men had grunted and sweated their way up the stone steps with their heavy load. It took Prescott some time to release the locks and bolts before the door could open, but now they emerged from the abandoned crypt into the churchyard at All Saints Church.
“I wouldn’t worry, inspector,” Whitlock panted. “If Proudfoot knows of the Lodge beneath his feet, he doesn’t care. He’s too intent on hurling fire and brimstone upon his parishioners or seeking a Paradise of his own in the bottom of a bottle.”
Bowman’s heart lurched. With the village at evening service, there would be no one to call to, no passersby to raise the alarm. Biting at his gag, his voice stuck in his throat. He could make no sound, and move no muscle.
Keeping low by a boundary hedge, Prescott and Whitlock manhandled their burden through a gap in the undergrowth. Suddenly, they were standing on a slipway by the river, the blue wrought iron bridge soaring above them. Beneath it, the Thames raced past on its journey to London and the sea. Even here where it was at its prettiest, Bowman could sense a malign presence rolling and twisting within those currents. Whitlock had let go of his feet now, and Prescott dragged him by the arms down the slope towards the water. Bowman saw the coroner reach for a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. Whitlock stood with his hands on his hips as Prescott splashed into the water. Soon, Bowman felt the Thames lapping at his ankles. Prescott was stronger than Bowman could ever have imagined. In one swift movement, the driver removed the gag from Bowman’s mouth, turned him face down and plunged him into the river. Bowman felt Prescott’s fist on his back, holding him beneath the water. He felt the river floor against his cheek and the rush of water in his ears. Suddenly, he was heaved out again. Prescott had him with both hands, gripping at the clothes on his back as he waded into deeper water with his load. Bowman gasped for breath, looking desperately around him for any hope of deliverance. And then he was under again. The shock of the cold water caused an involuntary breath, and Bowman felt his lungs fill with stinking water. He thrashed with his arms as best he could, reaching out to grapple Prescott by the legs. The driver kicked at him with his heavy boots. One foot made contact with Bowman's chin, and he felt his jaw crack. At first, he fought against the water, gasping for breath and thrashing his legs against its pull. He turned and writhed beneath Prescott’s iron grasp but then, in spite of himself, he stopped.
The Body in the Trees Page 21