The Ornamental Hermit

by Olivier Bosman

  And so I went to Sutton Courtenay to apply for the position. I was nervous. I had been someone others would shriek away from or look upon with a mixture of pity and disgust for so long, that I no longer knew how to interact with people. But Lord Palmer took a shine to me despite my wretched appearance (or probably because of it) and I was given the job.

  I can’t deny that it was hard. I was used to living like a stray cur in the privacy of my own degradation, but to do so in plain sight of others, and for their amusement, was a humiliating experience. But I consoled myself with the notion that this was the lesson which God had wanted me to learn. I had reached rock bottom and could only rise from this a wiser and more enlightened man.

  One month before the completion of my contract, I started preparing myself for my reincarnation and wrote to my parents. It was a short letter. I did not want to give away too many details of my life. I just wanted to let them know that I was still alive and that I was hoping to be reunited with them. I gave the letter to the gardener who posted it for me. I was planning to write more letters later. I wanted to prepare them slowly. It would have been too much of a shock for them to become acquainted with my extraordinary history in one go. But alas! Tragedy struck before I was able to write to them again.

  As I was chopping wood one morning, I heard someone calling in the woods. I went down to the river and saw a narrowboat floating gently by, with two figures of my past standing on it and grinning broadly at me.

  “Ayup, look who it is!” one of the figures called.

  It was Barnabas Crooke. And his son Oswald was standing at the back, punting.

  “So it is thee!” Crooke said. “I heard down th’river that tha were living in th’estate of some rich lord. ‘A tongue-less wild man’ they said. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘that can only be our good friend Brendan .’ And here tha art.”

  While Oswald started mooring the boat, Crooke jumped off, ran towards me and grabbed me in his arms. “So tha survived then?” he said, patting me on my back.

  I remained standing still, shocked and frozen. I had a foreboding that this unexpected visit could only lead to tragedy.

  “I was sure tha’d drown,” Crooke continued. “We got a boat too now.” He pointed proudly to the narrowboat. “They loaned it to Oswald. He put on a great show there in Birmingham Gaol, with his sad eyes and lost lamb routine. He learned a lot from thee, did Oswald. So where’s this posh house, then?”

  He let go of me and started walking towards the bridge which crosses onto the garden. When he got a good view of Sutton House, he stopped. “Stone me! Is that it?” he said. “Tha hast it made, tha has! Art tha allowed in?”

  I shook my head.

  “They have tha living out here, have they?”

  I pointed towards my cave.

  “But tha can get into th’house if tha wants, right?”

  I shook my head.

  “Tha could let us in. At night. Tha could leave a door open for us so we can slip in?”

  I shook my head again, but he kept ignoring me.

  “That door, there.” He pointed towards the servant’s entrance. “I wager that’s the kitchen door. Is that locked at nights?”

  I didn’t know, but I nodded.

  “Dost tha have a key?”

  I shook my head.

  “Can tha get one?”

  I shook my head again.

  “What’s the matter?” Crooke suddenly looked at me with a suspicious frown. “It’s me. Barnabas Crooke. I saved tha life back in Whitehaven, remember?”

  I kept looking at him, pleadingly. I wanted to tell him that I had nothing to do with the house, that I never ventured out of the woods, that I could be of no use to them and that they should go.

  “Tha wants the whole loot for thyneself, doesn’t tha? Tha greedy little bastard!”

  “Hey, Da. Look at this!” Oswald was holding up the hatchet I used to chop wood with.

  “Oh, that’ll do just fine,” said Crooke, taking the hatchet off his son. “We could break down the door with this.”

  At this point, Lord Palmer suddenly appeared. He was taking a shortcut to the fair in Abingdon when he stumbled upon us, taking us by surprise. We all froze on the spot and stared at each other for a few seconds, before Lord Palmer finally started to speak.

  “What’s this? Poachers, is it?” He kept looking back and forth between Crooke and Oswald, the hatred in his eyes growing by the second.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Crooke, tipping his hat at him. “We were just passing by on our boat and we ran out of kindling. I were just asking thy man here whether we could get some dead wood from…”

  “Green!” Lord Palmer yelled angrily. “Bring me my shotgun. I have a gypsy parasite here!”

  “Here, who’s tha calling a gypsy parasite?”

  “You are trespassing on my property,” Lord Palmer shouted angrily, “and that’s a criminal offence!” Suddenly he grabbed Oswald by the shoulders and pushed him against a tree. “Now you will stay right here until my man arrives with my shotgun. Then I will personally frogmarch you all the way to Abingdon Police Station at gunpoint!” He called again for the gardener.

  “Maister, tha hast gone too far!” Crooke approached his lordship and tried to wrestle Oswald away from Lord Palmer’s grip. “Take tha hands off me son!”

  “Speak English, man! I can’t understand a word you say!”

  “Let go off me son now, tha hears?”

  Crooke then started waving the hatchet in the air, which further enraged Lord Palmer.

  “You put that thing down this very instant!” he yelled. “I will not be threatened in my own land by a pair of thugs!”

  “I ain’t gonna warn tha again, maister! Let go off me son!”

  “It’s not ‘mister’, it’s ‘Lord’! You’ll have the decency of calling me ‘sir’, you impudent rascal!”

  This was too much of an insult for Crooke. Suddenly he swung the hatchet in the air and hit Lord Palmer with it on the back of his head. He hit him with the blunt side, but it was a powerful blow and Lord Palmer fell on to his hands and knees, yelping like a dog. Without a moment’s hesitation, Crooke then turned the hatchet around, took another sweep and dug the blade right in-between Lord Palmer’s shoulder blades, causing him to collapse face down on the ground.

  “Quickly Oswald, grab what tha can!” he said, kneeling down beside the body and ruffling through his pockets. Oswald soon joined in. They took a gold watch out, pulled a ring off his finger and found some bank notes in his pocket. Then they got up and started running back towards their boat.

  Crooke suddenly stopped and turned towards me. “That hast better come back with us,” he said.

  I remained frozen on the spot, staring at Lord Palmer’s body with horror. He was still alive then. I could see his eyeballs rolling frantically up and down, as if he were having an epileptic fit.

  “Art tha coming, or what?” Crooke called.

  I shook my head.

  “Well, suit thy self,” and he jumped back on to his boat.

  I realised shortly afterwards that I had made a mistake. I should’ve gone with them. I knew that this murder would be blamed on me, but when I turned around to face them, Crooke and Oswald had already pushed off and were floating downstream. I ran after them, waving frantically, begging them to stop, but it was too late. They simply shrugged and refused to turn back.

  All sorts of thought and emotions flashed through me at that moment. Why did this have to happen now? Why did God raise my hopes, only to dash them again so cruelly? What game was He playing with me? But then it struck me. Of course! How could I have been so stupid! It wasn’t enough to abandon my worldly possessions and elope to the Lake District! It wasn’t enough to cut off my tongue or to suffer an excruciating boat trip! I was responsible for the loss of two lives, that of Janie Drew and her unborn child! I deserved all of this. And much worse. Although I continued following the boat, I knew I had no hope of escaping. Lord Palmer’s body would soon
be discovered by the gardener and the police would be called in. They’d follow my tracks and pick me up. In due course I’d be tried and hanged, but still I continued walking down the river. I was in a state of trance (or was it shock?).

  I had lost all hope of ever being reunited with my parents and of recovering my old life. My life was over now. Finally, after all these years, I had given myself over completely to the will of God. I had only a short time left to live and this time would truly be spent ‘as though crucified; in struggle, in lowliness of spirit, in good will and spiritual abstinence, in fasting, in penitence, in weeping’.

  It wasn’t until I had wandered down the winding river all the way to London that I was finally picked up by the police. I don’t need to write what happened after that. I’ve been behind bars ever since, preparing myself for my final fate. I was ready to hang until suddenly another figure from my distant past re-entered my life. This time it was John Billings, my father’s ward. He’s the one who convinced me to write down this narrative. I don’t know whether this will save me from the gallows – and I don’t care if it doesn’t – but at least the truth can now be known.

  Epilogue

  It was day five of Billings’s suspension and he had barely left his room during that time. There had been too many strong emotions, too many unsettling revelations, which had kept him bound to his bed (and to his morphine) all this time.

  But on the week leading up to Christmas, Billings finally decided to pull himself together. He was climbing up the hospital steps, carrying a bag of fruit for the patient. He felt his heart pound in his chest as he approached the ward. What was he going to say? Would the patient even want to see him?

  When he arrived at the ward, he saw a group of people gathered by Jacobs’s bed. Mrs Jacobs was sitting beside her husband and Superintendent McMurphy and his assistant were standing at the foot of his bed. Billings stopped in the doorway. It felt inappropriate to barge in. He turned around and sat down on a bench outside the corridor, holding the bag of fruit on his lap. He could hear the visitors talking in the ward as he waited for them to leave.

  “Did he ask for money?” he heard McMurphy ask Jacobs.

  “No, he didn’t ask for money.”

  “Was there an implicit understanding that Detective Sergeant Billings would withdraw his accusations if you paid him some money?”

  “No, sir. There was no understanding between me and Billings. Billings is entirely blameless in this whole affair. It was me who was in the wrong. Me. Just me.”

  “How much money did Bhodan Krym offer you to tip him off?”

  “He offered to pay my debts, which amounted to five thousand pounds. This was a loan which I would have to pay back gradually from the rewards received for foiling his counterfeiting operation and the salary increase which might result from a possible promotion.”

  “Promotion?”

  “I assumed there might be a promotion in it for me.”

  “Well, there’s not going to be a promotion now, is there, Mr Jacobs? Damn it, man! This is the Turf Fraud Scandal all over again!”

  “I think he knows that!” Mrs Jacobs suddenly chipped in. “There’s no need to rub it in!”

  “Be quiet, Winnifred.”

  “But he’s talking to you like a common criminal!”

  “Be quiet, I said!”

  “How did this understanding between yourself and Krym come into existence?” McMurphy asked.

  “It appears that Krym was spying on us at the same time as we were spying on him. When he realised we had discovered his warehouse, he came to my house to make his proposition. I was in too desperate a position to refuse."

  “How did he know about your debts?”

  “He has an informer at the bank.”

  “So in what manner is the murder of Lord Palmer connected to this case?”

  “Lord Palmer was killed by one of Krym’s associates.”

  “Barnabas Crooke?”

  “Yes. He’s something of a loose cannon. The murder wasn’t planned. In fact it was a downright inconvenience.”

  “So when Detective Sergeant Billings accused you of deliberately scapegoating Sebastian Forrester, he was right?”

  “Yes. Except I didn’t know his name was Sebastian Forrester. I thought he was just a homeless vagrant.”

  “And did you think that that would make him more expendable?”

  Jacobs didn’t answer.

  “How’s your health?”

  “Not very well, sir.”

  “The doctor tells me you have lost the use of your right arm?”

  “Partially.”

  “And you are having difficulty walking?”

  “The arsenic has affected my balance.”

  “The doctor says you might never recover.”

  “No.”

  “We can’t have you back in the force unless you do.”

  “I realise that.”

  “And you probably won’t qualify for a pension after what you have done.”

  “I am aware of that too.”

  “So what will you do, then?”

  “I shall just have to sell up, won’t I?”

  At this point Billings heard Mrs Jacobs break down in tears. Billings also felt uneasy. His hand started trembling and he had a horrible feeling in his gut. Was he responsible for Jacobs’s predicament? Should he have foreseen this outcome? He got up, put the bag of fruit on the bench, took out a calling card from his pocket and left it beside the bag. Then he marched back towards the staircase and out of the building. He decided he could not go through with this after all.

  *

  A letter lay waiting for Billings as he returned home.

  Dear John,

  I am sorry that it has taken so long for me to write and thank you, but this has been a tumultuous time for all of us. I am afraid that I shall have to start the letter with some bad news. Mr Forrester has died. He died two days ago with me and Sebastian by his side. Although he has been unconscious and confused a lot lately, he did have a moment of clarity when Sebastian grabbed his hand and held it in his grasp. Neither father nor son could speak, but I could see Mr Forrester’s eyes well up with love and gratitude and I knew that he had recognized him. It was shortly afterwards, in fact, that he died, but I am so glad that God has allowed him to see his beloved son one more time before he passed away.

  The other sad news is that Sebastian has gone away again. When I went up to his room yesterday, his closet was empty and he had left a short note with an apology behind on the table. Please do not be sad for me. In a way I am glad that he has gone. It was clear to me that he felt uncomfortable being home. He was very unsure about himself and his inability to speak and the odour from his mouth made him very reluctant to leave the house and interact with our friends (who have all been very kind and welcoming towards him). He was also very restless. He slept little and paced about his room a lot. He mentioned in his letter that he had gone to the continent. I don’t know what he will do, but at least I know he’s still alive and that he knows where to reach me when he needs some money.

  Mr Forrester’s funeral will take place on Thursday, the day after Christmas. You will come, won’t you? You are the only family I have left.

  Yours lovingly,

  Cecilia Forrester

  Billings dropped the letter on the floor after reading it, then fell on his bed, rolled up his sleeve and injected another dose. It was the second dose of the day and it was still only three o’clock.

  *

  “God, we thank you for this food. For rest and home and all things good. For wind and rain and sun above – but most of all for those we love.”

  Billings looked around the dinner table as Clarkson recited his prayer. Clarkson was sitting at the head. His wife sat to the right of him and his two children sat to the left. They all had their eyes closed, their elbows on the table and their hands wrapped beneath their chins. Their happy faces were glowing warm in the light of the candles. A large crisply browned
goose on a bed of roasted vegetables lay in the middle of the table and the smoke which rose from it smelled very appetising. The Clarkson family looked idyllic, like a picture on a Christmas card. Billings was sitting at the other end of the table, a little removed from the family, feeling awkward and out of place.

  “Right, everyone on their feet,” said Clarkson suddenly as he opened his eyes and jumped up from the table. The diners all looked at each other unsurely and remained seated.

  “Well, come on. Up you get,” he repeated.

  “What for?” his wife asked with an amused frown.

  “Never mind what for. Just do as you’re told,” he replied with a smile. “Come on, all of you. On your feet. You too, Billings.”

  They all got up and looked at Clarkson confused.

  “We’ve thanked the Lord, now it’s time to thank Mr Boogledug,” he said.

  “Who’s Mr Boogledug?” one of the children asked.

  “Mr Boogledug is a very special friend of mine.”

  “Oh Samuel, you’re being silly!” Mrs Clarkson laughed and sat back down again.

  Billings felt like sitting down too, but he didn’t want to ruin Clarkson’s joke, so he remained standing.

  “In fact, it’s Mr Boogledug we have to thank for this special meal,” Clarkson continued. “If it weren’t for Mr Boogledug, we’d have nothing to eat this Christmas, except for some roasted carrots and parsnips.”

  The children stared at their father with doe-eyed wonder and hung on to his every word. Mrs Clarkson stifled a laugh when she saw this.

  “Daddy don’t make much money at Scotland Yard,” Clarkson continued. “Unlike our friend Billings,” he added, winking at his colleague. “He’s a sergeant, but Daddy’s just a constable and I only earn a couple of shilling a week. And that ain’t much. So there I was, wandering around Clapham Common, wondering what to feed my family this Christmas, when suddenly I saw Mr Boogledug, pecking and picking and fluttering about on the lawn. He was an ’andsome chap. Strong and sturdy and fat. So I walked over to him and I said ‘Sir,’ ... ”