Chapter Three
Are there any bears in England?
"Dr. Hobson," said Lewis, "do you have any conclusions about Miss Parkinson yet?"
Hobson looked up from the open corpse in front her and smiled warmly at Lewis. "Robbie, I was just thinking about you!"
Lewis was a little worried by the blood covering her gloved hands nearly to her elbows while she thought of him.
Laura said, "I'd shake, but..." She glanced at her gory mess in front of her.
"So, have you found anything?"
She frowned and said, "Well, her death was very violent, much more so than we usually see here in Oxford."
"In what respect?"
"She has what look like very large bite marks, as well as apparent claw marks, on her face, neck, front torso, back, and legs. Then she was stabbed repeatedly, although she was already dead by then."
"Claw marks? Bite marks? What kind of animal?"
"Ermmm, I don't feel comfortable making that determination. I think we need to get a biologist in for a consult."
"Huh, so it was an animal attack?"
"What kind of animal uses a serrated hunting knife?"
"What? So what happened here?"
"Killed by a bear, stabbed postmortem by a very angry person, I'm guessing. Unless it was a knife-wielding bear – which seems doubtful. Don't quote me, I'll know more later."
Lewis shook has head in wonder. "Yeah, I wouldn't care to take this into court without a great deal of supporting evidence."
"Like reports of a great bear rambling through the middle of Oxford."
"Yeah, that would be helpful. You don't suppose there are any..."
"Now Robbie, there are no bears in England – not outside a zoo at least. And zoos go to a great deal of trouble to ensure their bears don't go walk-about."
"Maybe a French bear hitched a ride through the Chunnel."
"I wouldn't care to bet on that."
"Yeah, me neither."
In the year of our Lord, 8 April, 1896, Midsomer Estate
Dearest Elizabeth,
Charlie's home! Hooray! Mummy and Daddy are over the moon in joy, although you'd have to know them well to notice any outward difference. The whole staff are chuffed to the nines to be setting up for parties, all running about getting this-and-that so all will be perfect.
Clara can hardly contain herself, the wedding day is set for next summer. I do hope my brother and Clara are careful if they try to push things ahead of marriage (I trust you know what I mean, I dare not write the words).
Still, I worry for Charlie. I saw him arguing with an irregular person of uncertain demeanour yesterday, it seemed quite the set-to that nearly ended in fisticuffs, or so I thought, but the queer fellow finally left, although with a few parting shots over his shoulder. I put it to Charlie, but he put me off. I was quite put out, and if you can believe it he told me to mind my own business! Hummph, well, I'm sure I don't know what he's getting up to, but it's on him I should think.
After two years of Brasenose College matriculation, I fear our Charlie is getting rather stodgy. He's been insisting to anyone not family that he be referred to as 'Viscount' more often than is quite done. It's his right, of course, as the heir presumptive, still, it's all rather pushy, don't you think? That, and he's got to have just the right wines, and he's become so very particular about cigars now. When did my brother take up cigar smoking? I think I shall replace his oh-so-expensive fancy cigars with cheap ones (I know just the ones, the gardener smokes them, I'll switch the bands and he'll never know), and after he lights one up and goes chuntering on about how superior his wonderful cigars are to cheap ones, how first-rate ash compares, how exceptional the bloody smoke, I'll tell him what he really just smoked, and then there'll be an argy-bargy! Oh, maybe not, it might be too hurtful a prank – but fun to think about!
Still, I am happy to have my brother home, underneath his tedious Oxford veneer, he's still little Charlie. Although he doesn't revert to being my beloved older brother until after the folks have gone to bed, the staff have gone off duty, we've had more than a bit to drink, and it's just us talking late into the night in the game room over the snooker table. We don't let daddy know how well I play.
With love,
Your Cousin Phillipa
"You want to ride with me to Causton this weekend?" I asked Cully.
"Ride in a Mercedes? Sure."
"You haven't seen my new one yet. When you go around corners, the seat reconforms and pushes against you on the opposite side of the turn, to hold you in from the G-forces. It's, um, startling the first time you feel it."
"Why are you going to Causton?"
"I'm meeting my sister there, then we'll head over to Dorchester for the weekend where we know some people."
"When do we leave?"
"My last class on Friday is out at three, but then I have to talk to my professor about my research. With Kitty being dead it kind of throws a wrench into the schedule."
"Yeah, it's hard on Kitty, too."
"I know, I know. I still can't believe this happened here in Oxford. I mean, this is such a civilized place, otherwise."
"Yeah, any place is civilized until someone gets murdered."
"Tell me about it. Still, it's been quite a few years since I had to deal with this level of violence."
"So back in America you have murders all over, corpses littering the streets and byways? There's no law against idiots carrying guns everywhere?"
"It's not quite that bad, but Sunnydale had a gang problem, and there was kind of a club at the high school organized to help defeat the gangs. My sister was involved in that."
"Huh, sounds dangerous."
"Yeah, that's why I was glad to get out. So, around six we can get something to eat then head out."
"I'll be ready when you get here."
The Earl was ecstatic that the police had found his walnut logs. He'd given instructions that the logs be transported to his local sawmill while his solicitor pressured the Crown Prosecutor's Service to bring charges against the bounders who stole his tree, as well as the ones who'd received the stolen property. The dead one surely had heirs that could be sued, he hoped.
He stood next to Tom the bandsaw operator and precisely instructed him how far to rotate the trunk for the first cuts. He wanted several through and through planks from the center of the great trunk, and it was important to start the blade at the correct angle to maximise the grain appearance of the finished product.
"Right there Tom, perhaps a touch more … got it! Now set your machine to twelve quarters and bob's your uncle."
Tom smiled to himself as he set his thickness to 300mm. The guv'ner liked his old-school terms.
The two watched carefully as the log fed through the blade, listening contentedly to the hum of the blade and the buzz of wood getting sundered and the fall of chips in the hopper. But, as the cut neared the root end the blade's tone suddenly changed to a shocking clang and the color of the chips flying out changed to a bright golden color for a few seconds. Tom went to hit the emergency stop, but the clanging noise stopped and he let the saw continue cutting. After all, he thought philosophically, the blade was probably already ruined, so no reason not to complete the cut and see what the problem was. The blade got to the end with a bit of screeching and he hit the levers to the carriage and the two men leaned over the safety rails as the hydraulics lay the two halves apart to see what made the strange noise.
"What in world? Is that gold?" said the Earl.
"Yes, a few gold coins, looks like, but wot the fuck is packed with the coins?!" said Tom.
"Oh dear, I'm afraid 'who was it' would be more correct."
†
DS Jones said, "Another sawmill, another corpse, this is getting to be a habit, sir."
"A rather nasty one at that."
"At least this body's been dead for long enough to be less messy."
"Hush," said Barnaby, "don't let the civilians hear you say things like that."
"Sir."
They walked up to the crime scene and observed the latest victim that somehow got stuck in a tree trunk. Barnaby said, "Lord Walpole? I'm DCI Barnaby."
"Barnaby, are you going to get to the bottom of this? And when can we cut up the rest of my tree? I'm worried about stress fractures from uneven drying."
"Give us enough time to dig out the gold and the body, sir."
"Shouldn't be too long then, right?"
"Perhaps not, we'll see." Barnaby studied the log and the remains and asked, "How could all this end up inside a live tree? Was there any sign on the exterior of the tree?"
The earl answered, "Well, there was probably a large hollow in the trunk, a split, which can occur naturally, or some external force such as lightening, or insect infestation. Sometimes it kills the tree and other times, if the tree is otherwise healthy and there are plenty of nutrients and the weather co-operates, the area will grow over and heal. And of course, there are ways to help the tree along; pack the hollow, tar it to prevent further insect damage, inject nutrients into the soil, and a few other things to insure a long-lived tree. I had seen the remains of the defect, of course, but it must have been before my lifetime that it was filled and mostly grown over."
"So you're blaming your father?"
"More likely his estate manager. He was an unlikable old sod, beastly when pickled, which often enough but not quite too often. And damn good at his job or Father would surely have sacked him. He retired a good forty years ago, then he died about, erm, twenty, twenty-five years ago, if I recall correctly. Still, I'd take a long hard look at 'im."
"Inconvenient that he's dead."
"Not much you can do about it Barnaby, that hollow couldn't possibly have been open enough to stuff a body in it and heal over in my lifetime. You are going be looking at my father's generation if you plan to find the perpetrator of this particular crime."
"Yes," Barnaby sighed deeply, "this'll be a hard slog to decipher, I fear."
He turned to look at the road when he heard a car drive up. It was the morgue van, followed by Dr. Bullard.
The doc parked his car and, noticing Barnaby and a few constables standing around another shed, headed over.
"Afternoon Tom."
"Another sawmill, another corpse, doctor."
"Getting to be habit, isn't it?"
"Not one I wish to encourage."
"I should say not. So at least we don't have any blood this time."
Bullard pulled on his crime scene overalls and knelt on the open tree trunk to inspect the old bones and the few strands of mummified flesh. He suddenly looked up at the band saw blade, which was within an arms length from his head, and said, "This machine isn't going to start up any time soon, is it?"
The bandsaw operator said, "Tom Weston, I'm the owner and operator of this facility. And no, the saw is shut down and the safeties will keep it shut down, and the main power to the machine is off at the box." He pointed to an electrical panel ten feet away.
"Good, good," said the doctor as he took in the large electrical switch in the off position with a red metal locking bar physically holding the switch from being moved.
Everybody watched him as Dr. Bullard examined the remains, there wasn't much else for them to do. He stuck a hand up in the air without looking up and said, "Evidence bag!" One of his assistants handed him a bag. He started to load gold coins into the bags. Everyone watching was mentally counting.
In the year of our Lord, 28 April, 1896, Midsomer Estate
My dear Elizabeth,
It's been a fortnight since Charlie left without so much as a word to the help, much less family. Daddy is beside himself, he can't decide whether to worry or be furious, and the whole household is in a dither. Mummy has taken to her rooms and hasn't been seen by anyone but her maid. The staff is all chock-a-block as daddy has taken to ordering servants to go forth hither-and-yon in the countryside whenever he thinks of yet another obscure accommodation where Charlie might have sequestered himself as well as having checked the Oxford residence three times a day by telegram.
But here's the muddle, no one knows why! Why, oh why did Charlie go away?
The only hope is that he will suddenly reappear to explain himself. Of course, daddy would be likely to extract some resolute punishment from him, but that would be better than this uncertainty that pervades the old house now. Between you and me, I'm on pins and needles, nay, more than that, distraught with apprehension, more like. It's not like Charlie to not to take me into his confidence when launching one of his hare-brained schemes. I was sure that was the explanation, but now, well, my sisterly instinct is insisting on a harsher answer. I dare not listen to my fevered boding.
And poor tormented Clara: confused, heartbroken and much overwrought. She was barely able to totter from her bed to the parlour when I popped by. Her butler, Biggs, told me she's hardly eating enough to keep a bird alive. Perhaps the less said, the better.
In the meantime, All we can do is wait,
Your Cousin,
Philippa
"Here you go, sir, Derek Ware, Earl of Orford's estate manager until 1955. Never married, served in the Royal Navy during WWII, rated as Petty Officer with a specialty in mine warfare – huh, I'm sure that's useful in estate management."
Barnaby laughed. "Yeah, well, experienced Navy petty officers are people who get things done, so he might have been a good fit, although the mine warfare stuff? Probably forgotten."
"Let's see," Jones continued, "he had a sister, but she died sometime in the late forties, parent's both passed before the war, and that's all I see."
"How did he get hired on at the estate?"
"I don't know… Oh wait, here's a note, apparently the old Earl was a Royal Navy Captain. I suppose they must have served together, or something."
"Or maybe the ex-Navy Captain just felt comfortable hiring an ex-Navy rating, whether or not they served together. Check with Bullard, why dont'cha, see if the tree-trunk body's been identified yet."
"Sir."
16 April, 1902, Oxford House
My dear cousin Elizabeth,
It is with a heavy heart that I tell you our news. As I write this missive, Father is down at the Crown Court with his solicitor. They are completing the paperwork for Charles. Father has finally decided, his hands forced really, to have Charlie declared officially dead.
Oh my poor brother Charlie, I still can't believe that he disappeared so completely these seven years ago of his own free will. And in fact, no one believes that any more; daddy is certain that some underhanded skulduggery befell him because otherwise his disappearance makes no sense. He loved being the Viscount, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he didn't wish any ill to befall daddy, but he surely looked forward to eventually inheriting the estate, he loved Oxford, he loved Midsomershire, he loved the ancestral homes, he loved Clara above all, and so no, no one believes he walked out of this life willingly.
So now the estate goes to my cousin Eddie. Well, I'm sure you know how I feel about that! Eddie isn't fit to clean the mud off Charlie's field boots, much less walk in his footsteps, isn't fit to manage a backyard vegetable plot, much less an estate of this considerable size. Father is keeping his anger and his feelings bottled up, and apparently I am the only one who sees this. I fear he may keel over from the stress and tension if he can't figure out something different. My poor father is but a shell of what he once was: Charlie's loss, followed so soon by mummy succumbing to the vapours, and then his hand-picked man losing the by-election to that puffed up peasant from Lesser Horsepath! But his hands are tied by our ridiculously outdated inheritance laws and so he must publicly recognize young Eddie as his heir, without the faintest suggestion that he's an ignorant fathead. Daddy may not even have realized that Eddie, besides being a foolish oaf, is also an odious creature who doesn't possess an ounce of principle or decency. I'm stopping now, my own feelings are too raw to go on.
I feel very lucky indeed that I no longer have to live at this formerly great house – Father's gift to me and my new husband of the house in Oxford was like a benefaction from the heavens. Perhaps Father isn't nearly as oblivious to the world around him as he sometimes seems. Of course, if it wasn't for my husband, I don't know what I would have done – probably would've followed Clara to the convent.
Your Sorrowful Cousin,
Phillipa
I sadly gathered all of Kitty's notes, books, clothes, and other miscellaneous items that had collected in my house. I was planning to hand it all over to the police, but I couldn't help but start going through Kitty's notes, after all, she had been my research partner and who knows what she had come with and just never had the chance to bring to my attention?
I snorted,'Yeah, that's as good an excuse as any.'
In my study Kitty had left a leather messenger bag and a couple of boxes. Naturally I looked inside. I couldn't help myself, I had been an inveterate snoop since kindergarten. Oh wow, I had to stop and sit down for a few minutes thank about that. So no, of course I hadn't been a snoop in kindergarten because back then, I was just a floating ball of green energy. "Well fudge!" I said out loud to the empty room. I guess the monk's made me a snoop for their own inscrutable reasons. I leaned over and started to inventory Kitty's boxes. Hmmm, what's this? I found a very old wooden box. It was entirely covered in intricate inlaid woods of many contrasting colors, along with ivory, and, what, brass? No, it had to be gold because it wasn't corroded or discolored. This was quite a find. I stared at the boxed, wondering if I should open it, but in the end, of course, I had to.
Hmm, old letters. I wonder if I should read them? Why do I even ask myself such a stupid question?
After I read all the letters, I called Sergeant Hathaway.
I found Sergeant Hathaway in Furio's pub. He was sitting at in the corner reading so I got a half-pint of lager and sat across from him.
"Hey, Sergeant, may I join you?"
He smiled at me. "Sure, I can't very well say 'no' now, can I?"
"So watcha readin'?"
"Our Magnificent Bastard Tongue, by John McWhorter."
"Oooh, linguistics. My favorite subject, McWhorter is good, really good."
"Yeah, I thought I'd catch up a little – it may even bear on this case."
"Really? Do you have any leads?"
"Now now, you know I can't talk about it, it is an ongoing investigation."
"And I'm a 'person of interest', I know."
"Not really, we don't actually suspect you."
"I'm glad to hear that."
"So," Hathaway continued after a swallow of dark beer, "I've been told that there are two kinds of Oxford students: chancers and scholars. Which are you?"
"I don't know, what's the diff?"
"Chancers are ambitious. For them Oxford is merely a stepping stone to a greater life, hopefully ending up as an MP, maybe even prime minister, or maybe CEO of an international corp, or possibly an Anglican bishop. Your scholar, on the other hand, dreams of spending their life in a garret, writing books so obscure that they can be fully understood by only a few dozen people the world over, and be perfectly content, even deliriously happy doing so."
I laughed. "I would prefer to have a few tens of thousands understand my academic books, and I have high hopes for a popular bestseller someday – along the lines of McWhorter – but in general, yeah, the academic life is the one for me. I've had enough excitement to last a lifetime, three lifetimes maybe."
"Why? What happened to you?"
"Have you ever heard of Sunnydale, California?"
"Sunnydale… Oh yes, that's the town that sank into the earth."
"That's where I'm from. I was one of the last people out."
"Oh! That's why you look familiar! I saw your picture, by a school bus, overlooking the crater."
"Yep, that's the one."
"So, what did you want to talk to me about?"
"Well, I heard on the news about the corpse in the tree. Hey, that'd make a good mystery book title wouldn't it?" I reached into my messenger's satchel and brought out a sheaf of paper. "These are a bunch of old letters that might shed light on your mystery, or at least give you something to check."
I handed them over and he started to read. After a minute he looked up and asked, "Where'd you find these?"
"In my house. I think it's the same house that is described in the last letter. It was owned by the Walpole family back in the last century or so. Anyway, I found these in the guestroom that Kitty occasionally used, and I'm pretty sure that she found them in the house, probably up in the attic with a bunch of old stuff."
"Well, thank you for bringing these, I'm afraid I have to go and consult with my boss now."
"See ya later." I liked his smile as he left.