T Kinsey - A Quiet Life in the Country (A Lady Hardcastle Mystery Book 1)

‘I’ll get Newton to harness the horse and we’ll be off in no time. Do come in in the meantime. Can I offer you anything while we wait? Tea, perhaps? Have you eaten, Constable? I’m sure Mrs Newton could find an extra helping of something.’

By the time we reached the clearing, more than an hour had passed since we’d made our grisly discovery. We found Lady Hardcastle deep in conversation with Sergeant Dobson some way from the dangling body. They seemed to be looking at some sketches.

‘Look at this, Hancock,’ the sergeant said with glee. ‘Lady Hardcastle has sketched the scene for us.’

Hancock inspected the drawings and nodded gravely with what he imagined was professional approval. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Very good indeed.’

‘They’ll be a great help at the inquest, Lady Hardcastle,’ said the sergeant. ‘Thank you. Oh, and where are my manners? Lady Hardcastle, may I introduce Dr Fitzsimmons?’

‘We met yesterday, thank you, Sergeant. How are you, doctor? It’s a shame our second meeting couldn’t be under more pleasant circumstances.’

‘It is indeed, my lady, it is indeed. Now what have we here? A suicide, it seems. Do we know who it is?’

‘Not quite yet, sir, no,’ said Dobson. ‘I’ve got the queerest feeling I’ve seen the gentleman before somewhere, but I just can’t place him. I can’t quite reach his pockets, neither, or else I’d have seen if he had a letter or something that might have identified him.’

Constable Hancock had been staring at the body. He didn’t look too comfortable and I wondered if he’d seen many bodies in circumstances like this rather than laid out neatly in a coffin ready for the last respects of their loved ones.

‘I knows him,’ said Hancock slowly. ‘That’s Frank Pickering. He’s from over Woodworthy but he’s played cricket for us since their club folded last season. He worked in Bristol. It cost him to get in on the train every day from Chipping Bevington but he always said he’d rather that and live out here than live in the city. Nice bloke.’ His voice drifted off as he looked on, still mesmerized by the body.

‘That’s it, young Hancock,’ said the sergeant with a jolt of satisfied recollection. ‘Well done, boy. Yes, I seen him playing against Dursley a week ago last Sunday.’

‘Was he a melancholy fellow?’ the doctor asked Hancock.

‘No, sir, that’s just it. He was the life and soul, he was. Bright and bumptious, always had a joke.’

‘It can often be the way that a jovial exterior masks the pain within,’ mused the doctor. ‘Shall we cut the poor fellow down? Then we can take the body back to my surgery and we can make the arrangements for the inquest.’

Lady Hardcastle had been slightly distracted throughout all this. She was looking at the ground beneath the body and checking it against her sketches. ‘Might we test one or two of my ideas before we do, please, gentlemen?’

‘If we can, m’lady,’ said Dobson. ‘What troubles you?’

‘Would you say the ground was soft, Sergeant?’ she asked.

‘Passably soft, m’lady, yes.’

‘And so one might expect that this log, which had borne the weight of quite an athletically hefty man, should have left an impression in the ground beneath the tree.’

‘That seems reasonable, m’lady.’

‘And yet . . .’ She indicated the ground immediately below the body. It was trampled and bore one or two odd impressions, but there was no obvious large indentation from the end of the log. ‘I wonder if I might trouble you to stand the log on its end, Constable, just as it would have been before poor Mr Pickering met his unfortunate end.’

‘Certainly, m’lady,’ Hancock said, stepping forwards and lifting the log. He positioned it on its end with its top some six inches below the toes of Frank Pickering’s boots.

We looked at the newly created tableau for a few moments before Constable Hancock slowly said, ‘Wait a moment, if his feet don’t touch the log, how can he have been stood on it before he topped hisself?’

‘Upon my soul,’ said Dr Fitzsimmons.

‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ said Sergeant Dobson.

‘And there, gentlemen, you see what’s been troubling me,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’m not an expert in these matters, but I’d say the odds were somewhat against this being suicide.’

‘It does seem unlikely,’ said Fitzsimmons, looking up at the body. ‘But how the devil did they get him up there? He’s not a featherweight, is he?’

‘Cruiserweight at the very least,’ said Dobson appraisingly.

‘They could have just hoisted him up,’ said Hancock.

‘I thought that,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘but take a look at the rope. See where it’s wrapped around the branch there? If one had hoisted him up from the ground, how would one then manage to wrap the rope five times round the branch and tie it off so neatly? It was made to look like Mr Pickering had prepared the rope before standing on the log, and if he’d been hauled up, the rope would have to be tied off down here somehow, by someone standing on the ground.’

‘But,’ said Hancock, still trying to puzzle things out, ‘why would he be out here in the woods in the middle of the night? And who would have wanted to kill him?’

‘Luckily,’ said Dobson, ‘that’s soon to be someone else’s problem. We need to get him down, get him to the surgery, and then telephone the CID in Bristol. Murder makes it their case.’

‘Just one more thing I noticed before we go,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘There are ruts in the ground running from the road to the tree, along the line you all walked to get here. Maybe two inches wide, about a yard apart. My guess, and I don’t want to be seen to be interfering in any professional work here, is that they might be from some sort of handcart. It would be an ideal way to get a body here.’

‘If he were killed somewhere else, you mean?’ said Hancock.

‘As I say, gentlemen, none of this is within my area of expertise. I wouldn’t want to step on any toes.’

‘Course not, m’lady, and we appreciates your help,’ said Dobson.

‘You’re most welcome, I’m sure. Gentlemen, it’s been quite a morning for me. Would you mind awfully if I excused myself? You know where to reach me if you need me.’

‘Certainly, m’lady. You get yourself home and get a nice cup of hot, sweet tea for the shock. We’ll take care of things from here.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant. Come along, Armstrong, let’s get home.’ And with that, she strode off towards the edge of the clearing and I followed. Once we were on the road and safely out of earshot she said, ‘Hot, sweet tea, indeed! We shall have a bracing brandy and the devil take the blessed tea.’

We set off for home.

3

We had found Mr Pickering’s body on Wednesday and had both been interviewed by the detective in charge of the case on Thursday afternoon. Inspector Sunderland had been an easygoing and affable fellow. His quiet confidence in his authority and abilities left him free to treat everyone around him with calm respect. Nevertheless he seemed unimpressed by Lady Hardcastle’s questions and suggestions. We had been dismissed as soon as he had taken our statements.

On Friday morning I ventured into the village to place some orders with the local shopkeepers. The village green was in the most splendid condition. It was obviously a very important part of village life and was currently in use as the cricket pitch so I was extremely careful not to walk across the pristine ‘square’ of the wicket at its centre.

My first call was to F. Spratt’s, the butcher’s shop. Mr Spratt was cutting chops from a loin of pork as I entered. Hearing the bell, he stopped what he was doing and wiped his hands on a cloth hanging from his apron.