5. The Murder at Sutton House
“’Ere, Billings! ’Ow long ’ave we been travellin’?”
Clarkson was sitting in the train carriage, staring out the window. Billings was sitting opposite him, reading a book. “I don’t know,” he said, refusing to take his eyes off the book.
“We must’ve been in the train for ages. Are we nearly there yet?”
“I don’t know, Clarkson. I’m reading.”
Clarkson curled up his lip and tutted. “You’re always bloomin’ reading when I’m trying to chat to you!” he sulked. “Anyone ever tell you you’re an unsociable bastard?”
Billings ignored him. He was too engrossed in his book to allow himself to be distracted. He was going through Sebastian’s diary and he felt both fascinated and repulsed by what he read. Sebastian was a lazy diarist. He didn’t write every day and some days he just summed up with a single word: ‘boring’, ‘miserable’ or ‘torturous’. But there were a few entries which surprised and intrigued Billings and which shed light on Sebastian’s frame of mind.
Billings was surprised at how little he actually knew about Sebastian. He had always thought of him as a glorious young titan, but there was something very rebellious and conflicted about him. He was full of contradictions and profound passions. Where do such passions come from, Billings wondered. He had never had such passions. He had only ever had anxieties.
Billings closed the book and turned his head towards the window. Memories of Sebastian flooded his mind. He never had been able to read that boy. Sebastian could be charming and friendly one minute but then, quite unexpectedly, his mood would turn and he’d become cruel and aloof. Billings only ever saw him in-between school terms. Sebastian went to Rugby, of course. The best school in England. But there was no money to send Billings there too. He was forced stay at home – or rather, Mr and Mrs Forrester’s home (he could never call that cold Chelsea house his home). Billings didn’t go to school at all. Instead Mr and Mrs Forrester took it upon themselves to educate him. Mr Forrester would teach him history and literature, whereas Mrs Forrester would try to improve his writing. And on Sundays, a Quaker school master would stay on at the meeting house to teach French and algebra to whomever wanted to improve their minds. It had been an adequate, albeit patchy education. But it had also been a solitary youth. Billings always wondered whether it was this lack of interaction with other boys which had made him so morose and unsociable.
He always used to look forward to Sebastian’s homecoming. That Chelsea house was so hollow and empty without him. He would mark the term end dates on his calendar and count the days. Sebastian was usually restless, grumpy and subdued when he was at home, and he’d take his frustrations out on Billings. He’d say things like: “Didn’t they teach you anything out there in the bush, you little numbskull?” or “Look away, ward. I’m not your brother!” But still he’d miss him when he was not there. He’d miss his deep quiet voice, his lovely melancholy eyes or the beautiful sight of his straight strong torso. He suddenly remembered how he’d spent nights sitting alone on his bed with his ear against the wall, secretly listening to Sebastian bathe in the next room, splashing about in the tub, listening to the water trickle down his naked skin and he would feel the blood rush to his head... and to his loins. Yes, he did have strong feelings once. Perhaps he still did. He had just buried them deep inside him. Silenced and pacified them so effectively with morphine and work that he simply forgot about them.
“I don’t know ’ow you do it,” Clarkson said suddenly.
This shook Billings out of his reverie and he finally turned to face his companion. “Do what?” he asked, putting the diary away in his satchel.
“’Ow can you be on your own all the time?” Clarkson continued. “We’ve only been away for a couple of hours and I’m already missing the rib. In nine years of marriage I never spent a single night away from her. Never! D’you believe that?”
Billings smiled politely.
“When you gonna find yourself a girl?”
“Never.” Billings instantly started ruffling through his satchel for Robinson Crusoe. He was not prepared to have this conversation.
“Why do you do it, Billings? Why you on your own all the time?”
“I don’t know,” he said, grabbing his book and opening it.
“You’re not that young anymore, you know? You really ought to start looking around for someone to settle down with. ’Ow old are you now anyway? Forty?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Bloomin’ ’eck, really? Hard life, was it?”
Billings ignored him and started reading.
“’Ow come you’ve always got your conk buried in a book when I try to talk to you?”
There was something about Clarkson’s tone that made Billings look up from his book. Clarkson was frowning at him with a hurt expression in his eyes. “Have you got something against me, or what?” he asked.
Damn it! thought Billings. I really must try to be more sociable. “I’m sorry, Clarkson,” he said, forcing a smile to his mouth.
“I’m a better copper than you think I am,” Clarkson continued. “You got no cause to ignore me.”
“I’m not ignoring you. I’m just not used to company, that’s all.”
“I was born into the police force, I was.”
“Were you?”
“My father was the chief inspector of the W Division. You didn’t know that, did ya?”
“No.”
“Pup of the truncheon, me.”
Billings smiled. ‘Pup of the truncheon.’ There was a certain rough charm about Clarkson. He wondered that he never saw it before.
*
Billings and Clarkson arrived in Abingdon at around eleven o’clock in the morning and were met in the station by a ruddy-faced young man who approached them as they stepped off the train. “Billings? Inspector Billings?” the man asked.
“Actually, it’s detective sergeant,” Billings corrected him. He stepped forward to shake the man’s hand.
“How do you do. DS Ferguson is the name,” the man reciprocated. “Are these your bags?” Then without waiting for an answer, he grabbed a bag in each arm and marched off towards the exit.
“’Ere, hang about!” Clarkson cried, alarmed, before marching on after him.
“The police station is just up the road in Bridge Street,” the man called out. “Follow me.” He continued to trot down the platform with the cases, never stopping, never even looking back, his two little legs striding manically beneath him like an upturned beetle, while Billings and Clarkson rushed behind him, desperately trying to keep up.
“Bloomin’ ’eck! Do something about that bloke, will you Billings?” Clarkson huffed as sweat beads trickled down his face. “He’s running around like a dog with a banger up its arse!”
Billings had taken a small dose of morphine early that morning. He felt he needed something to help him cope with the long journey and Clarkson’s oppressive company. To compensate he deliberately left his ampoules and his syringe at home, even though he knew he would probably not be back before midnight. He would just have to cope without it, he thought, but he could already feel the nausea creep in as they chased the local policeman out of the station.
DC Ferguson led his visitors into the police station and towards the inspector’s office where DI Northover was sitting behind his desk, eagerly awaiting their arrival.
“Ah, here they are!” the inspector said as Billings and Clarkson stepped into his office, puffing and sweating. “Our men from the Yard.” There was a broad smile on his face as he got up from his desk and walked towards his visitors. He was wearing a smart suit. His cuff links had just been polished and they were glistening in the light of the window.
“This is Detective Sergeant Billings,” said Ferguson as Northover shook his visitors’ hands, “and this is Detective Constable Clarkson.”
The expression on DI Northover’s face suddenly changed. “A sergeant and a constable?” he a
sked, raising his eyebrows and no longer smiling.
“Yes, sir,” replied Billings, oblivious to the inspector’s change of mood. “We’ve brought a photograph of the man we arrested two days ago. We are hoping to obtain a positive identification.” He walked towards Northover’s desk, rested his satchel on it and proceeded to take out the photograph.
“Are you in charge of this investigation, Detective Sergeant Billings?” DI Northover asked.
“No, sir. The investigation is coordinated by Chief Inspector Jacobs at our end.”
“And where is Chief Inspector Jacobs?” DI Northover asked, looking around him for the missing man.
“He’s in London, sir.”
“In London?”
“Yes, sir. He sent me and Clarkson to speak to you.”
“Too busy, I suppose, to come down himself?”
Billings suddenly became aware of the disappointment in the Inspector’s tone. “We always are at Scotland Yard, sir,” he said, smiling apologetically.
“You always are at Scotland Yard,” DI Northover repeated bitterly. “Well, we have been very busy ourselves, haven’t we, Ferguson? I’m sure cold-blooded murders are commonplace in London and you deal with them as a matter of routine, which must be why Scotland Yard deemed it adequate to send a ‘sergeant’ and a ‘constable’ to assist us.” He uttered the words ‘sergeant’ and ‘constable’ with barely concealed disdain. “But we haven’t had a calamity like this since the riot at St Marks Abbey in 1183 and we have been working tirelessly day and night to apprehend the culprit. Isn’t that right, Ferguson?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Ferguson will take you to Sutton House later so you can meet Bertie Green. In the meantime, here is the file on our progress so far.” He picked a file up from his desk and held it out to Ferguson. “Ferguson will take you through it.”
Ferguson looked at his boss, confused. “You want me to brief them, sir?”
“You brief them, Ferguson,” he said, pushing the file into the sergeant’s hands. “I have other things to attend to.” He then walked out of the office with his smart suit and his polished cufflinks, clearly feeling himself to be above having to a brief a ‘sergeant’ and a ‘constable’. Even if they were from Scotland Yard.
“Well,” said Ferguson, a little flustered at the turn of events.
“Was it something we said?” Clarkson asked with a bemused expression on his face.
Ferguson ignored the comment and opened the file. “So… the facts,” he said, leafing through the report. “Lord Palmer’s body was found on the 21st of October at around eight in the morning by Bertie Green, the gardener of Sutton House. The body was lying face down in the earth with an axe sticking out of the shoulder blades. Green was in the outhouse when the murder occurred and had heard Lord Palmer cry out for him, but he was in no position to rush to his aid.” He started to read out from the file. “‘It were a sit down visit,’ according to Green, ‘me breeches were wrapped around me ankles and I was halfway through completing my purpose. With all the will in the world, I were in no position to jump up and rush to his lordship’s help.’” Ferguson paused and smiled as he read the quote. Billings and Clarkson laughed along with him.
“Why was Lord Palmer calling out for him?” Billings asked.
Fergusson cast his eyes back down on the file and continued reading. “‘Green, bring me my shotgun. I have a gypsy parasite here.’ That’s what the gardener heard Lord Palmer cry out.”
“Gypsy parasite?” Billings asked.
“That’s what the gardener said. When he finally concluded his business in the outhouse, he rushed to the woods and found Lord Palmer lying dead on the ground in the manner I just described. It turns out that Lord Palmer was on his way to the horse fair in Abingdon and had decided to take a short cut through the woods. According to Lady Palmer, he was looking to buy a new horse and had put three five-pound bank notes in the inside pocket of his coat. The bank notes were not there when he was found. Also missing was a gold cameo ring with a picture of a Greek warrior and a gold watch engraved with two date palms.”
“So what makes you think it was Brendan Lochrane who killed him?” Billings asked.
“Well, Lord Palmer’s body was found just outside Lochrane’s grotto, it was Lochrane’s hatchet which was used in the attack and the man himself disappeared shortly afterwards. As far as we’re concerned that’s enough to make him a suspect.”
“What about the gypsy parasite?”
“Well, that threw us too at first. There were some gypsies here at the time, who’d come down to the horse fair from Somerset to sell a horse. There were four of them. They camped in a field on the south bank of the Thames. We interviewed each one of them, but they all had an alibi in Isiah Frodsham who owns the field and who confirmed that they never left it. You’ll find the report of the interviews in this file. According to Green, Lord Palmer called everyone a gypsy. He used the word as an insult and was in the habit of yelling ‘gypsy’ at anyone who displeased him. This is also confirmed by Lady Palmer. Nobody else was spotted on the terrain at the time of the murder. That makes Lochrane our only suspect. Now, I believe you have a picture of him.”
“We do.”
“Well, then I suggest we make our way to Sutton Courtenay so you can speak to Green yourself. I have three bicycles parked outside. I take it you both ride?”
*
Ferguson led his two visitors over the Thames Bridge, past some dew-covered hay fields towards Sutton House, just outside the pretty village of Sutton Courtenay. “It’ll only take twenty minutes if we pedal fast,” he called, rushing on before the others.
“Mate, what’s the bloomin’ rush?” cried Clarkson, annoyed, but Ferguson ignored him and sped off, leaving the other two struggling to keep up.
As they entered the village, Ferguson pointed towards a charming 17th century farmhouse, surrounded by 100 acres of land, most of which was wooded. “That’s it, over there,” he said and turned into the drive. Billings and Clarkson followed him. As they approached the house, Billings saw Bertie Green waiting for them at the garden gate. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, chewing on a reed. He was around sixty years old, with a red, weather-beaten face and thin grey hair sticking out from beneath his cap.
The drive was particularly frosty at this time of year and as the policemen rode over it, Clarkson slipped and fell over, cursing loudly and rudely as he did so. Ferguson and Billings quickly jumped off their bicycles and rushed to Clarkson’s aid, but Bertie Green didn’t move a muscle. He remained leaning against the wall, looking at the visitors. “That be them then, be it?” he asked, still chewing that reed. “Detectives from London?”
“This is Detective Sergeant Billings,” said Fergusson. “And this is... um...”
“Clarkson!” the constable replied angrily, dusting himself off and picking his bicycle up from the ground. “Detective Constable Clarkson!”
“Found our Brendan, then did ’ee?” Green asked, now looking at Billings.
“Well, we found a man that fits his description, but whether it’s Brendan Lochrane, that’s what we’re here to find out. I wonder if you could...” He ruffled in his satchel for the photograph and held it out to the gardener. “Could you please take a look at this.”
Green glanced quickly at the picture without taking it from Billings. “Oh, arr. That be him, alright.”
“Are you sure? Look again, please. Take your time.”
“That be him, Sergeant,” he said without bothering to take another look. “That be our Brendan. Made it all the way to London, then, did he? How did he get there? I thought you fellas had all the roads blocked.”
“We assume he must’ve taken the river,” Fergusson replied.
Billings was still holding the photograph in his hand. “How tall would you say Brendan Lochrane was?” he asked the gardener.
“He’d be ’bout five foot seven, I’d think.”
“Not six
foot three?”
“Oh no, not six foot.”
“Because the local police described him as being six foot three.”
“Local police?” he said, looking at Ferguson. “Is that ’ee, Tomas?”
“The height on the description was an estimate based on Lady Palmer’s accounts,” said Ferguson.
“But he weren’t six foot, Tomas.”
“Lady Palmer described him as being tall and imposing.”
“He were imposing, alright, but he weren’t six foot, Tomas.”
“Well, that’s it, then, ain’t it?” said Clarkson. “We can go back ’ome now, can’t we?” And without waiting for an answer, he grabbed his bicycle and started climbing on it.
Billings hesitated and Ferguson looked at him unsurely.
“Would you object if I took a stroll around the grounds?” Billings asked Green.
“Oh Billings, come on!” Clarkson pulled a face like a sulking child. “There’s no need for that. Let’s go back to Abingdon. Have ourselves a couple of drinks, before we go back ’ome.”
“You go on ahead. I just want to have a look around on my own.”
Clarkson dropped the bicycle angrily on the ground. “I’ll wait for you here!” he yelled. “But hurry up! My knee needs attending to!”
*
A luscious lawn lay spread out before the house and there were rose bushes everywhere; climbing on the walls, entwined around the gazebo and in plant pots littered all over the terrace. The garden bordered the woods and a small brook separated this genteel world from the dark forest beyond it. Billings and Green crossed a small bridge over the brook and followed the path towards Brendan’s grotto, which lay well out of the garden’s sight. It wasn’t a real cave. Rather, it was a small, windowless stone hut which was built against a mound, under the roots of a tall birch. Grass had been allowed to grow over the roof. It looked more like a badger’s den than a cave.
“This is it, Sergeant,” said Green, standing at the grotto’s entrance. “This be our Brendan’s home.”
The grotto was dark and damp. As Billings approached the entrance to peer inside it, a large moth (or was it a bat?) fluttered out of the cave in panic and made him jump.
The Ornamental Hermit Page 5