Someone in the house is a murderer. Someone has chopped Mr Hookeye’s head off.
I wonder if it rolled along the floor? I wonder if the murderer had been tempted to kick it like a ball through the window?
I wonder why I am thinking such things.
Detective White and Constable Walnut investigate
the death of Icarus Hookeye
Constable Walnut and myself are travelling in a very unsteady pony and trap driven by the pub landlord’s son. It amazes me that the contraption hasn’t collapsed and we haven’t all fallen into a ditch. It’s kept going by sheer force of will.
The telegram arrived late morning and we dispatched immediately. Detective Waxford was supposed to be assigned the case, as he has previous experience with this village and its inhabitants. But he has a broken foot, due to chasing and capturing an infamous pickpocket of Camden, who made the mistake of “fingering” Waxford, hopeful for a gold pocket watch. Instead he was pursued, thrown into a slop heap outside a butcher’s yard and arrested. Waxford, a short Welshman, barrel-shaped with a dark beard, is renowned for his fiery temper, dogged persistence, and great love of poetry. Waxford has previously visited the village Darkwound on four separate occasions, and I am fully aware of the “missing people” cases which have amassed over the years. I have the notes of Waxford’s journal on his previous cases and have read over them on the train. I am curious if there might be a connection.
Over the last five years in the village of Darkwound there have been three cases of grave robbings, eight disappearances and three sets of body parts found in the woods. No arrest has been made despite a vigilant investigation by Waxford. There has simply not been enough evidence. His frustration is apparent in his journals, and he has pointed to three individuals whom he finds suspicious. Waxford’s prime suspect was initially Lord Loveheart. Surprise, surprise. Waxford had described him as “a nut”, “off his head” and “clinically insane”.
In his first interview, Mr Loveheart had pretended to be dead. And that, by all accounts, was the most productive of their interviews. So exasperated was Waxford with him that he nearly shot him outside the Vicarage.
It has been many months since I have seen Mr Loveheart, although we had been sent an invitation to his birthday (we were stuck in Wales at the time). I order the landlord’s son to drive by Loveheart manor en route to the Grubweed residence.
Waxford’s second suspect is Mr Grubweed, the retired undertaker, who now is incredibly wealthy. Waxford had suspected Grubweed of criminal activities as he had been involved in fraud when he was in London – some rumours of illicit grave digging, but nothing solid to arrest him.
Finally Waxford had pointed a heavy finger at Professor Hummingbird. His note – “I am convinced the Professor is employing Grubweed in some nefarious scheme” – was scribbled in the margins. But, once again, no evidence strong enough to support any allegations of anything criminal against him; a very frustrated Detective Waxford returned to London and was reassigned.
Before we have even arrived at the Loveheart estate, Mr Loveheart leaps out of the bushes and onto the cart.
“Detective Sergeant White and Constable Walnut. I am so happy to see you both again.” In his hands is a bouquet of wild flowers, which he hands to Walnut.
“Thank you very much,” says Walnut, looking genuinely pleased.
“So, you’ve come because of the murder. It’s terribly exciting, isn’t it ? And no it wasn’t me, before you ask. I had nothing to do with it at all.”
“What about the missing villagers?”
“I may have decapitated a few undesirables. I believe they were running a demonic cult in the woods. A lot of singing going on; dreadful business.”
“A demonic cult, you say?”
“Yes. Simply ghoulish! The chanting went on for hours. And the group harmonies were diabolical.”
“There’s a cult next door to Scotland Yard,” Walnut adds helpfully. “Lots of suspicious droning on a Sunday morning.”
“That’s not a cult, Walnut, it’s a church,” I interrupt.
“Well, it sounds unnatural.”
“Did you know Icarus Hookeye?” I ask Loveheart.
The driver looks round. “Do you want me to turn about, sir, and head for the Grubweed house?” He stares at Mr Loveheart, the village madman, with a bemused look.
“Yes, thank you,” I reply.
“I never met him but I heard terrible things about him. He was the Professor’s doctor. Did some work with Grubweed.”
“What sort of work?”
“Transportation of bodies, so dark rumours tell me.”
“For what?”
“Illegal medical experimentation seems a little predictable to me. My guess would be something more sinister.”
“Any proof?”
“Alas, I am not a detective. That is your forte.”