//[[index|Index to pages]]// ======Thornton Under Vale Mystery – Part 3====== // [[:cwc:thornton-under-vale-mystery-part-1-v2|(Read from start)]] // {{:cwc:fnbearpaw-little-bear-set_1-300x300-1.png?300x300}} For Constable Web, the demise of Robin Cock in the woodland vale, was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing in that he hoped it would give him the chance of showing off his detective skills to the Chief Constable; and a curse, because he couldn’t solve the mystery of who had exactly dispatched the most hated man in the District. He was not short of motives for the killing, which he expected. But it was unusual to have so many methods being used.He was poisoned; struck with a candlestick; hung; shot with an arrow, and finally, frozen under a blanket of snow. Which one actually killed Mr Cock was still under debate between his boss, DS Hawk and the older, cynical pathologist, Dr Fish. The pathologist was convinced that it was the final arrow in the man’s forehead, whereas the detective considered the poison being the most likely, as it was obviously planned. The rest were just opportunist attacks. The doctor snapped back, “Oh, you often find people wandering through the wood with Longbows at the ready, do you? Some medieval miscreant aiming to knock off the Kings deer, and accidentally missing. We are not talking about “Oops, I appear to have an arrow in my eye” King Harold here. We are in the 21^stCentury.” DS Hawk was under a lot of pressure from the Chief Constable to solve the case. He was purple with rage, and screamed back. “Well, you find the bloody killer then! Doctor-Know-It-All-Watson.” before storming out of the antiseptic smelling mortuary, aiming to slam the doors to make a point, only to find they had automatic stoppers. “So much for a dramatic departure “ muttered Dr Fish to Constable Web, who was hovering around in case there were clues to be picked up from the tense discussions between the professionals. Unfortunately, they had very different suspects. “Doctor, why don’t you think the son, Adrian Cock, is a suspect?” whispered the constable, just in case his Boss had not actually left the building. The pathologist looked up from his paperwork, and raised an eyebrow, “If it was Adrian Cock, then why leave the unsigned Last Will and Testament that disinherited him? It’s a prime Motive, so why leave the letter? And who was Robin meeting?. Remember Adrian’s alibi? So… Sidney, what does that suggest?” ‘Spider’ was not used to be called by his proper name of Sidney, and such respect from the Doctor boosted his deflated ego, but he was not yet confident to question his Boss’s opinions. “The Will was left to incriminate Adrian Cock?” The Doctor nodded. Sidney perked up, “So that suggests someone who knew the family well, and what Robin Cock was planning.” He paused, his mind recalling the evidence, “Assuming that that was what he was intending. The Will was typed, and neither signed nor witnessed. It was on a standard form, not from a solicitors office. It could have been bought at any good stationery shop and placed on the corpse afterwards.” “Inside pocket,” corrected the pathologist. “No fingerprints, or DNA, apart from the Sales Assistant, and if she had not been shoplifting you wouldn’t have her details on file. Good work finding that out, Sidney.” “DS Hawk said I was wasting police resources finding the stationery shop. Shame the CCTV of that sale was damaged when we extracted the tape. DS Hawk blamed me for that. I feel he doesn’t want me on this case.” “Have you interviewed Edwina Fly again? After all, you said she had witnessed the killing.” Spider shook his head, “DS Hawk says she’s a bit batty. Anyway, she has corrected her statement, and says she MAY have seen the archer, and she discovered the body on her way to see Mrs Cock with the news of Robin Cock’s infidelity with The Linnet barmaid. To be honest, I have been trying to work out timings, and where everyone was, and the stories are holding up. It’s as though there is another person involved that we don’t know about.” The pathologist waved crime scene photographs at the constable, “You may be right, but I really think you need to speak to Miss Fly. She said she was the last person to see Robin Cock alive, so there maybe something she can recall. Look at the photos. He was shot with the arrow in the forehead, not the back, so he was not running away. He was obviously there to meet someone. Probably he walked there. No tyre tracks. But with every other footprint over the scene, I can’t say who else was there, before, during or after. I can confirm he was dragged into the hollow by a thick bell rope. Coloured fibres. I suspect to hide the body from view. The corpse was not buried, and not laid out in any ritual way, so maybe the killer was disturbed and fled. Had the arrow gone into the eye socket, like good old King Harold, it is likely that the fletch may not have been seen until the snow had melted completely. Our corpse had a rather thick skull. That accounts for him surviving the earlier blow to the head. Definitely silver plated lead – from the indentation, I would say a heavy candlestick. Church type.” Web muttered, while holding the photos, “So I should be looking for a very strong, bell ringing, church man, with skill with using a hunting longbow. “ The Doctor smiled , “Or someone who is tricking you to look for such a suspect. Rather like Adrian Cock. Before this case is over, I expect you will find a few more Red Herrings,” said Doctor Fish. With those disturbing thoughts, Constable Web left the chill of the mortuary, to drive to Edwina Fly’s home. He left a message for his Boss, saying where and why he was going, but he was delayed arriving at Miss Fly’s rose-covered cottage. The summer perfume that emanated from the cottage was intoxicating. That aroma clouded the other distinctive smell of Miss Fly’s cannabis production. Miss Fly’s quality of weed was surprisingly good and consistent. The income supplemented her state pension and kept the local teenagers mellow. It was a community service in his view. The road was flooded, water from the thawing snow finding its way back to Nature. Not being a local lad, he didn’t know the shortcuts like DS Hawk. He was doing his best to integrate by getting to know the local people; being helpful at Church events; less arrests and more advice; turning a blind eye to traditional, but illegal, activities, like fox hunting and cannabis growing. However, as he drove onto her small driveway, the yellow Winter Jasmine providing contrast to the white walls and black wood framed medieval aged cottage, he could tell something was not right. The front door was open, and there was wispy smoke emerging like a departing sprite. Sydney rushed in, senses on alert. Heart thumping. The main room was full of white smoke, that was acrid and burnt his throat and stung his eyes. No sign of Edwina. He called out, “Police” and “Miss Fly?” in between coughing. He found the heavy wood door to the kitchen stuck. Jamming his shoulder to the old timber, he managed to force it open. A small wood wedge had held the door closed. The kitchen appeared to have more smoke. He struggled to the table, laid out with her precious floral patterned cups and tea pot. The pot was still warm, as was the Apple pie. The food on the table was still warm. He called again. No reply. The acrid smoke was getting to him. Barging out of the part opened back kitchen door, he had to stumble into the neat vegetable garden to gasp fresh air, eyes streaming, head pounding. He was going to throw-up into the green rows of winter cabbage. Then he saw her. Laying on the worn red-brick path, face up. Her eyes were open, bloodshot, and stared at him, rigid hands clutching her throat, like he was doing. She did not make eye contact, as she was dead. The cold weather had frozen her wrinkled face and hands. It was obvious that attempting his very poor resuscitation technique would be a waste of time. Better to get back-up and Dr Fish. If only he had known the damn short-cuts, he could have saved the old witch. Staggering back to his police car, he looked through bleary eyes back into the white smoky cottage for any clue, and saw a crushed bee-keepers smoke canister on the kitchen’s grey stone floor, still issuing its toxic contents. An accident? Coughing, he looked back to the tweed clad body, her flower-enveloped hat tossed aside into a bare herbaceous boarder. There was a movement by the woman’s neck. Huge, black, hairy, with juddering movements. Gripped in horrored fascination, his eyes adjusted to the shape as the thing moved away from Miss Fly. There was a huge spider on the wall of the kitchen garden, which casually, climbed up and vanished into a dark crevice of the grey drystone boundary. It was as though her spirit familiar had departed. Had that spider actually dispatched Miss Fly? Staggering back to the police car radio, he mused that their only witness to the killing was dead. Accident? He could visualise the pathologist cynically raised eyebrow, and his Boss’s accusations for not being quick enough to stop yet another crime. Where was this all leading? //(Prompts Used: The road was flooded; There was a huge spider on the wall; He/She was purple with rage; The food on the table was still warm; She did not make eye contact; The room was full of smoke…)// [[:cwc:thornton-under-vale-mystery-part-4| //Now Read Part 4// ]]         ---- Authored by: Mark Baker; Last updated: 2021-07-04T09:51:26(UTC)