Perspiring gently, and slightly out of breath, I reached Sergeant Dobson’s house within just a few minutes. The large, cast iron knocker on the dark blue door made a pleasingly loud bang as I rapped it firmly, and soon there were sounds of activity from within.
Village life had proved quite a contrast to the bustling anonymity of London, and between our arrival at lunchtime two days ago and retiring for the night on the previous day, just about every inhabitant of the village, rich and poor, had paid a call on Lady Hardcastle. They had come to introduce themselves, to offer their services and, most of all, to goggle at the lady from London. The local landowner, Sir Hector Farley-Stroud, seldom had visitors it seemed, and a lady from London was by way of an exotic curiosity, especially once rumours about her past had begun to circulate. All of which meant that not only did I already know exactly which of the little houses on the village green belonged to the Gloucestershire Police, but also which one served as both the village police station and the home of Sergeant Dobson. It also meant that I was known to the portly sergeant who recognized me as soon as he opened the door. His gruff rebuke for disturbing the constabulary slumbers died on his lips when he saw me standing there.
‘Why, Miss Armstrong,’ he said solicitously, ‘whatever’s the matter? You look all of a pother.’
As succinctly as I could, I told him what we had found and within just a few moments he had fetched his hat, finished fastening his tunic and was leading me to the door of the smaller cottage which adjoined his own.
‘Young Hancock will be fast asleep like as not, so just you keep knocking till he wakens. Tell him what you told me, then say I said he’s to fetch Dr Fitzsimmons. They’re to come up to the old oak in Combe Woods in Dr Fitzsimmons’s carriage so we can bring back the body. Begging your pardon, miss.’ He blushed slightly at speaking of such things in front of a woman, then turned hurriedly away and mounted his black, police-issue bicycle.
He turned and waved as he rode off towards the woods, and I began knocking on the door.
It was, as Sergeant Dobson had suggested, something of a task to awaken the sleeping constable and almost five minutes had passed before a bleary-eyed young man in a long nightshirt opened the door.
‘What the bloomin’ ’ell do you–’ Once again coherent speech was extinguished by the sight of a slightly unfamiliar woman at the door. ‘Sorry, miss, I thought you was... No matter. Miss...?’
‘Armstrong,’ I said, ‘I’m Lady Hardcastle’s lady’s maid.’
‘So you are, so you are,’ said the tall young constable, yawning, and scratching at his beard. ‘What can I do for you, miss?’
‘Lady Hardcastle and I were walking in Combe Woods and we found a man hanging from the old oak in the clearing.’
‘Dead?’
No, I thought to myself, he was in remarkably fine spirits, actually, despite the rope round his neck. His face was purple and his breathing a little... absent, but he seemed frightfully well, considering. I decided not to say that, though. Be polite, Flo, I thought.
‘Yes, constable, quite dead. Sergeant Dobson asks that you fetch Dr Fitzsimmons and bring him and his carriage to the clearing. He wants to bring back the body but I imagine the doctor might want to certify death, too.’
‘He might at that,’ he mused. He stood awhile in thought before making up his mind what to do, then stepped brightly out of the door. But when his bare feet touched the cold, dewy grass, he became suddenly aware of his state of dress. ‘Oh. Oh,’ he said, slightly flustered. ‘Give me a few moments to make myself decent and I’ll be with you.’
‘Thank you. Might I prevail upon you for a lift back to the woods? It was quite a run to get here.’
‘You ran?’
‘I did indeed.’
‘But you’re a...’
‘Yes, I’m one of those, too. It’s remarkable the things we can do when we think nobody’s looking.’
He looked briefly puzzled before hurrying back inside and slamming the door. I heard his footsteps running up the stairs and waited patiently for his return.
Dressed, behelmetted and ready for duty, Constable Hancock reappeared at his front door a few minutes later and we made our way across the green to Dr Fitzsimmons’s house.
‘Might I ask you a question, Constable?’ I said.
‘Certainly you may, miss.’
‘This seems like a very small village to me; why does it have two policemen? And such luxurious accommodation?’
Hancock laughed. ‘We’re not just here for Littleton Cotterell, miss, this is just where we have our headquarters. We serve several villages for miles around.’ He seemed to inflate with pride as he said it. ‘It’s quite a responsibility, and one that the boys in the towns tend to underestimate.’
‘Well I’m glad we have you to ourselves this morning. I don’t know what I should have done if I’d had to get all the way to Chipping Bevington for help.’
‘You’d’a been disappointed when you got there, an’ all, miss,’ he said, ‘them’s idiots over there. You could have used the telephone, mind. We’ve got one now.’
I’d been wondering about that. We took the telephone for granted in London, but I had no idea if such conveniences had made it all the way out here. It seems that the police stations had them, at least.
We reached the doctor’s house and knocked at the door. It was answered very promptly by a middle-aged woman dressed from head to toe in black.
‘Hello, Margaret, is the doctor in?’ Hancock said.
‘Whom shall I say is calling,’ she asked.
‘It’s me, Margaret, Sam Hancock.’
‘I know who you are, you fool, don’t be so impertinent. But the... lady?’
Hancock was losing his patience. ‘Is he in or not? We are here on urgent police business and I don’t have time for your tomfoolery. I’ve a good mind to–’
A well-dressed, elderly man – tall, balding, and with quite the longest nose I’ve ever seen – appeared behind the snobbish housekeeper. ‘Thank you, Mrs Newton, I’ll take care of this.’
Margaret reluctantly shuffled back into the hall and went about her business.
‘My apologies for the welcome, Constable. How may I help you?’
Hancock introduced me and I ran once more through my brief account of the finding of the body.
‘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.’
We both accepted the offer of tea and sat in the doctor’s waiting room while Margaret’s husband prepared the carriage.
By the time we reached the clearing, more than an hour had passed since we’d made our grisly discovery. Dr Fitzsimmons’s horse had been tethered by the side of the road and we’d walked to the clearing to find 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.’