The Body in the Trees Read online

  The Body In The Trees

  Richard James

  ©Richard James 2019

  Richard James has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2019

  This edition published in 2020 by Sharpe Books.

  For Izzy.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  End Note.

  SUMMER, 1892

  “It is my belief… that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.”

  The Adventure Of The Copper Beeches, Arthur Conan Doyle

  Prologue

  Detective Inspector George Bowman stood on Hanbury Street, blinking the dust from his bloodshot eyes. The sun had baked the road hard beneath his feet and a dusty film lay over everything and everyone. The very bricks of the buildings around him seemed to radiate heat. A collective lethargy had settled over the passersby as they shuffled in the harsh glare of the sun, their shoulders stooped. The wisest amongst them kept to the side of the street, hopping between arches and alcoves in pursuit of the cooler shade. A team of labourers struggled with their load, stopping at intervals to sit on their carts and catch their breath. A pawnbroker rested in the shade of the tatty awning before his shop and drew lazily on his pipe. A flower girl sat on the wall opposite to wipe her face with the hem of her skirts. The road was as busy as it ever was. Traders dragged their wares on rickety carts towards Commercial Road and the city. A workhorse pulled a dray of barrels from the brewery, the driver flicking his whip about its flanks in a vain attempt to provoke it. Swearing loudly, he swerved to avoid a drunken man who lay on his back in the middle of the road, his face obscured by a copy of the Evening Standard. Bowman was not in the least surprised to see that no one showed the slightest concern at his condition.

  The inspector swung his hat from his head to smooth his hair with his fingers. There was a persistent throbbing at his temples and his mouth was dry. He had come to Hanbury Street in search of help, but now he doubted himself. Perhaps he was beyond rescue. Try as he might, he could not avert his eyes from the kerb. Shuffling slowly to the spot where she had stood, he was struck by the indifference with which people walked past. A ghost stood at the roadside and they paid it no heed. He felt suddenly aware of the very absence of her. Swallowing hard, he raised his eyes to the opposite side of the street.

  The Women’s Refuge stood back from the road, a red-bricked building with a plain frontage. It rose over three floors, its windows staring balefully out to the street below. A faded sign above the door proclaimed it to be under the auspices of The Salvation Army and a gaggle of women gathered beneath its chipped and peeling paintwork. Bowman smoothed his moustache between a forefinger and thumb as his eyes fell upon a board, hastily propped up by the low wall. “The Evils Of Drink!” it seemed to bellow into the street, “Be free from its pernicious bonds!” Some smaller text invited the curious to attend a meeting at two of the clock in the Booth Room. Bowman flicked open his fob watch and squinted to read the dial. He marvelled that he had arrived on time.

  Truth be told, he had not passed the morning well. He had risen late to find the landlady at his door. She was a dour, Scottish lady who lived on the floor above. It being a Thursday, she was tasked with cleaning his rooms. Clearly surprised at finding him at home, she had offered her apologies with an insinuating tone and stood with her arms folded across her bosom, her eyebrows raised in admonishment. Bowman had grabbed a jacket and hat and stumbled from the building to leave her to her duties, thankful for once that he had slept in the clothes he had worn the day before. He knew that, with a fair wind, he might make it to the meeting in time, and so he walked the streets of Hampstead in search of a cab.

  Now he stood before the Women’s Refuge, the blood rushing in his ears. Taking a breath to calm himself, he took a step off the kerb just as she had done some fourteen months before. He fancied he felt her hand on his back, guiding him gently across the road to the building opposite. Oblivious even to the carts that rattled around him, he straightened the tie at his collar and fixed his eyes on the door before him. If he gave himself time to think, he would turn his heels from the building in search of the nearest public house. A pint or two of porter would numb the pain, he knew, and a couple more would numb it further.

  The interior of the hall was appreciably darker than the street outside. The shutters were closed at the windows to thwart the sun’s heat and Bowman could feel the tiled walls cooling the air about him. A crush of women was directed to a counter where they might pay a penny for a meal and a penny more for a bed, their harsh voices echoing to the ceiling as they clamoured for attention. Bowman dropped his eyes to the floor, the better to avoid the gaze of those around him. Some were older and clearly in a state of some distress, others much younger but sad around the eyes. Three or four officers from the Salvation Army stood in their uniforms, directing the ladies to their dormitories or the refectory where their dinner might be taken. Bowman would not have been surprised to see William Booth himself conducting proceedings. Anna had mentioned once that he would often work at the refuge or give talks to its residents. A charismatic speaker, he had spurred her on to devote ever more of her time in helping others. The assistance offered by the Sally Army was entirely laudable. Bowman had never thought that he might himself be the recipient of it.

  Turning off the reception hall, the inspector was confronted by a kindly-looking woman in a smart, black dress. The straw bonnet on her head was trimmed with a blue ribbon and marked her out as a Salvation Army officer. She regarded Bowman over her half-moon spectacles as she spoke.

  “Are you here for the meeting?”

  “Yes,” Bowman nodded in response, his breath quickening at the admission.

  “Then you are just in time. Brigadier Garrett is preparing himself.” She gave the inspector a pitying look and directed him into a side room with a high ceiling and a table at its far end. Some wooden chairs had been placed in rows before it with an aisle between them. Bowman saw with a start that only two were occupied, and that he was the only man present. Had it not been for the officer at his elbow, he might well have effected a hasty retreat, but there was something about the look she gave that told him such a move would be frowned upon. Slowly, he sunk into a chair by the door, toying nervously with the rim of his hat. He was at least grateful to be given respite from the heat of the day.

  Looking about him at the others present in the room, he saw an old lady who was already asleep. She sat slumped in a corner, a string of drool emanating from her lower lip to collect in a pool on her lap. Her shoulders heaved up and down as she took long, shuddering breaths, her head nodding onto her chest as she sank deeper into her slumber. A young girl, perhaps no more than fourteen years old, sat fidgeting on the front row, looking back at him with quick, furtive glances. She knotted and unknotted a handkerchief in her trembling hands. Every now and then she would gasp, as if suddenly cognisant of some knowledge that caused her distress. She was dressed in a plain grey dress, her hair collected and pinned beneath a creased mob cap. Bowman leaned back in his chair with a sigh, regretting his decision to come.


  The door behind him was thrown open with a clatter and soon he heard the tapping of a cane on the parquet floor. Turning to the aisle, he saw an old man walking slowly along its length to a lectern. This must be Brigadier Garrett, Bowman surmised, though quite what he had done to attain his rank he could not guess. The lectern was placed before a large picture depicting a battlefield. Wounded soldiers lay face down in the mud, their fingers reaching up to the sky. A warrior on horseback shielded his eyes against the supernatural glow that radiated from an angel at the painting’s centre. Suspended amongst the clouds, the angel’s wings spread wide over the entire battlefield as if to provide a comfort to those below. He wore an expression of divine sorrow at the scene beneath, and beckoned with his hand that the wounded and dying might join him. The painting was too literal for Bowman's taste but, he reasoned, served well enough as an illustration of the power of salvation. “Come unto me,” the angel seemed to say, “and leave your Earthly cares.” Bowman snorted, audibly. If only it were that easy. Glancing to the lectern, he saw the old man had taken his position there. Brigadier Garrett was a curious creature, having the appearance of a character from a fairy tale such as one might read to a child. He was short of stature and ancient. The smart Salvation Army uniform he wore seemed the only thing holding him up as he hung his cane on the lectern. His shoes were polished to a perfection that was rivalled only by the shine of his buttons. Most startling of all, however, was the great, white beard that spread across the old man’s chest and even across his shoulders. A pair of shrewd eyes peered from behind the foliage of his eyebrows as he balanced his pince-nez precariously at his nose to read. A peaked cap jutted from his head, from which there sprang a wiry thatch of white hair. Resting his hands at either side of the lectern, the old man gazed with barely disguised disappointment at the few assembled before him. When he eventually spoke, he did so with a powerful voice quite at odds with the frail vessel from which it emerged.

  “Woe to those who rise early in the morning,” he proclaimed with a fierce Irish accent. “That they may pursue strong drink.” He paused dramatically to survey the room. Suddenly even more uncomfortable under the man’s gaze, Bowman shifted on his chair. “Woe to those,” the Brigadier continued, “who stay up late in the evening that wine may inflame them!”

  The old lady had been jolted awake by the force of his words. Wiping the drool from her chin, she looked about her as if unsure of her surroundings, blinking in confusion.

  “There is, the Bible tells us, a place in Hell for those who succumb to drink.” The young girl in the front row began to sob. Rather than offering her any comfort, the man at the lectern turned his full force upon her. “We read in Galatians that those who practice drunkenness and carousing will not inherit the Kingdom of God.” He allowed himself a beatific smile. “The Good Book could not be any plainer.” He let the longest pause settle over the room before he continued, confident that no one there would have the guile to get up and leave. Stroking his beard, he stepped from behind the lectern and pulled himself up to what passed for his full height. “God hates drinkers,” he asserted, simply. “And there is none other to blame for that, than you.” He turned to gaze at each of them in turn, reserving a special look of distaste for the girl in the front row. “Look around you at the world that He created. Man has made it a place of filth and degradation, of fornication and sin. Proverbs tells us the heavy drinker and the glutton will come to poverty, and it is so. The greatest cause of poverty is drink.”

  Bowman’s eyes darted to the back of the room in search of an escape. The woman who had admitted him stood guarding the door, clearly in thrall to the Brigadier’s rhetoric. Her eyes burned with admiration and her arms were folded proudly across her chest. In that moment, the inspector knew he should prepare himself to hear the entirety of Garrett’s speech.

  “There is but one way to sobriety,” the man was intoning, “and that is through God. Dedicate yourself to Him and His works and the Kingdom of God will be thine. Turn from him, and nothing but damnation awaits.”

  This was almost too much for the young girl in the mob cap. Her sobs were louder now, and she shook fearfully in her seat. Garrett seemed possessed with a sudden strength as he moved towards her, his hand outstretched. “Turn to God and be saved,” he boomed, his powerful voice echoing from the ceiling. “Renounce him and burn!” His eyes gleaming with a ferocious light, he stood with a trembling finger outstretched towards the unfortunate child. The effect was immediate. With a howl of pain, she slid from her chair and to her knees. The old man placed his hand upon her head. “Turn from drink and turn to God!”

  Bowman could contain himself no longer. Clearing his throat, he rose unsteadily to his feet, the action alone drawing the attention of the man at the front of the hall. “You would do well to leave her be,” the inspector cautioned as he moved towards him. Bowman was surprised at the feeling in his voice.

  “She is in sin,” replied the Brigadier, as if it were explanation enough. The girl on the floor shook her head to be free of his hand. “I am the Lord,” he thundered, “and there is no other. Besides me there is no God!”

  Bowman was on his haunches now, holding the young girl gently by the elbow. “She needs help, not admonishment,” he pleaded. “She has a sickness.”

  “She has a weakness,” Garrett corrected him, his beard quivering in defiance. “And she needs saving!”

  “She needs air,” Bowman insisted.

  “None shall come to God who drink.”

  The unfortunate child at Bowman’s side was trembling uncontrollably now. He turned to plead with the woman at the door. “Will you help me lead this poor wretch from the room?”

  Lifting the girl to her feet, Bowman held out a hand to keep the old man at a distance. Garrett’s eyes blazed as he stood firm, muttering under his breath. “Behold, I am the Lord, the God of all flesh,” he intoned over and over as if it were an incantation.

  The woman from the door had joined them now. Obviously embarrassed at the disturbance, her eyes pleaded with the old man for his forgiveness at the interruption. Garrett simply sighed and turned away, clearly disappointed at the turn of events.

  It took both of them to lead the girl up the aisle and to the door. The old woman followed proceedings with a half-interested gaze then promptly fell asleep again where she sat. Looking over his shoulder, Bowman could see that Garrett had taken his cane from the lectern and, shaking his head, was shuffling towards a side door. The afternoon’s performance over, his whole demeanour had changed. The Brigadier was once more the amiable looking character from a children’s story, his previous persona discarded as easily as one might discard a coat.

  Reaching the door, Bowman noticed the girl had got lighter with each step. By the time they reached the reception hall, they were barely supporting her at all. Finally, she straightened herself up and stood unaided. Wiping the tears from her eyes with a sleeve, she looked up at Bowman with a toothy grin.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said with a mocking curtsey. For the first time, Bowman fancied he could smell alcohol on her breath. “I couldn’t stand his cant no longer.” With that, she bent to lift up her skirts and ran for the door, her childish laughter echoing around the hall.

  Aghast, Bowman looked to the woman beside him for an explanation. “Her name’s Tillie,” she sighed, haughtily. “She is well known to us.” Bowman raised his eyebrows. “She comes to us for warmth and food, then takes to the streets again to earn her penny.”

  “The penny she needs for her bed?” Bowman asked.

  The woman nodded. “On a good day she’ll make tuppence and spend a penny of it on drink.” She looked at Bowman, pointedly. “As she did this morning.”

  Bowman shook his head in disappointment and smoothed his clothes about him.

  “And what of you, Inspector Bowman?” He was startled by the use of his name. Looking up at his companion, he saw all traces of severity had slipped from her face. Now she regarded him with kindly eyes. “I
could not help but recognise you.” Bowman shuffled uncomfortably where he stood. He was at a loss for words. “I was on duty on the day of the accident,” the woman continued. Bowman’s stomach lurched at the word. “And I followed your story in the papers.” With a shudder, Bowman remembered the headlines in the Evening Standard. He wondered just how much she knew. The woman leaned in, earnestly. “You must know, inspector, that God has a plan for us all.” Bowman’s heart quickened. “You are but an instrument of His work.”

  The implication behind her words caused the inspector's stomach to turn. If that fateful day had seen Bowman working only as an instrument of God, then His plan was truly a dreadful one.

  “Have you come for guidance?” the woman asked, peering condescendingly over her half-moon spectacles.

  Bowman’s gaze was drawn through the door to the street beyond. Drawn to the negative space where she had stood. “Perhaps,” he whispered, almost to himself. “But I will not find it here.” He had never felt so alone.

  As he made for the door, Bowman felt his hand beginning to twitch. He feigned reaching for the watch in his waistcoat pocket to disguise the tremor, but fancied it was too late. The woman in the Salvation Army uniform shook her head sadly as he retreated through the door, his head bowed and his mind set on soothing his fevered brain at the nearest public house.

  I

  A Strange Harvest

  Tom Cousins knew how to curse. For a boy of twelve he was extremely well versed in oaths of all colours. As the brambles scratched against his bare shins he let a few fly before him, mainly aimed at the hound that sprinted ahead, heedless to his calls. This dog was more trouble than he was worth. A hopeless rabbiter and even worse a fighter, he ran away daily. Perhaps he thought it a game, that he should be chased through the woods around Larton by his master. Or perhaps he thought it was for the boy’s own good. Either way, Tom was tiring of the sport. As he reached a clearing, he stopped to catch his breath. He had climbed quite a height through the baked paths of the wood and now he stood, breathing hard and dripping sweat. He felt his skin tighten in the sun and blinked into the glare. There below him lay Larton, sprawling to his left and right. He could see the glint of the river as it snaked through the village, its progress punctuated by the new iron bridge and the tower of All Saints Church. A plume of steam rose from a locomotive on the line to his right while, directly below him, a gardener tended the lawns of the manor house. Tom could see a game of croquet was in progress and marvelled at how those with the most money seemed to do the least to earn it. Squinting into the sun, he could see the lord of the manor in white flannels and striped blazer, standing to take his turn at the hoops.