Thornton Under Vale Mystery – Part 1

Prompts Given: Dead as a door nail…; Breathed his last..; Green eyed monster…; No body wants you…; His stiff upper lip; It was bitterly cold….;

It was bitterly cold, and under the foreboding peach skies, a slight flurry of snow had started to fall over the hamlet of Thornton under Vale. The very traditional 2 storey Victorian cottages that dotted around the rather grand Georgian fronted, mediaeval farmhouse, should have been a haven of peace and happy workers. But it was not. It was more a Vale of tears, especially for the local police force.

Yet another phone call had come in from the grand house. They all knew the number off by heart, as it had been quoted so many times on the Police Station’ answerphone, each time with more and more vehemence from the recent owner, Mr Robin Cock.

Of course, it was not a good start when Mr Cock rang the local police first time, and the desk officer replied, “ Oh really? Robin Cock… well, I’m Fondling Tits. And I’m busy!” The next call came from the Chief Constable’s Office, with reminders that the Police were to be respectful at all times, especially to wealthy, well connected, members of the public.

Once again, weary Constable ‘Spider’ Web had been dispatched to follow up the latest complaint about a strange lump seen in the wood outside the Residence of Mr R Cock. Surprisingly it had been Mrs Cock that had called, rather than her insufferable husband. She was a nice, understanding woman, always happy to offer tea and cake, while rolling her eyes as her husband ranted on about some infringement, like the hamlet’s few children playing football in the road… obstructing the highway; being a danger to vehicles; disturbing the peace with shouts as they scored goals through his gateway; and demanding the parents were arrested for failure in childcare.

Constable Web couldn’t help smirking when he discovered Mrs Cock’s previous family name had been Anbull, and they had originally owned the farm, cottages and all the surrounding land. Getting that land back had been considered worth the risk. But was it really worth living with such a hated man?

Pulling the old brass door bell, he wondered what he would face. The tall panelled door was opened with hesitation, and he saw the narrow, age-wrinkled face of Miss Fly, the hamlet’s own busy-body. The perfume of musty lavender water hit his stinging nose. “Oh, I’m so glad you have come. She is very upset, you know. You’d better come in out of the cold.” whispered Miss Fly, tousled white hair flowing in the bitter winter breeze.

Inside the dark, oak panelled hallway, the distinct warmth and the strong aroma of Whisky, and just the doom tones of the ticking Grandfather clock for sound, did not suggest a panic. He was led into the very ornate, jade coloured, lounge, trying not to be be impressed, or jealous of the wealth on display in ostentatious disregard.

The lady of the house stood tall by the Adam Fireplace, which was giving out a cheerful glow of heat, sipping from a rather full crystal Whisky glass. She was dressed in County Tweed, and wearing green wellington boots, which had signs of having been walked through mud. Her eyes were red, her face so pale, but she looked fiercely out of the room’s tall Georgian window towards the white flecks of snow and the dark, leafless, fingers of tall trees. She turned slowly to face the young, blue coated Policeman.

In her practised, clipped, British voice, like a 1930’s BBC Radio drama, she said, “Ah, Constable. I think you will find the body of my husband is the object of your interest. We’ve left him in the wood, where we found him.”

Constable Web was taken aback. “Mr Cock is dead?”

Mrs Cock sipped her whisky, looked back at the whitening wood, “As a door nail. You’ll find his body as stiff as his upper lip.” There was no emotion in the voice. It was very odd.

Miss Fly shuffled forward, “I suggested we called a doctor, but….” her wavering voice failed, as the much taller woman turned, and snapped, “That would have been rather pointless. There’s an arrow embedded in his forehead.” She sort of giggled, “Right where his third eye would have been. Rather poetic, really.” She gulped a lot of whisky. Her faced winced. Turning back to face the window, she had a slightly hysterical tone as she said, “Oh, what must you think of us? Would you like some tea? Edwina, could you make the constable some tea? I… I don’t think.. I …” Her voice trailed off into silence.

Edwina Fly moved forward and gently took her hand, “I really think you should sit down, Ivana, dear. You are in shock.”

Spider Web mind made a connection. Ivana Cock? He just about stifled a giggle, and to avoid further embarrassment, said, “I need to get back-up” and quickly rushed out to use his radio… and laugh.

-oOo-

The weather around Thorton Under Vale had become worse with the flurries of snow blanketing the gardens and the woodland like a Christmas card. By the time Detective Sargent Hawk arrived, any trace of footprints or other evidence was lost under a thick quilt of fluffy snow.

The older man was wrapped up well, wearing thick gloves and walking boots. Constable Web noticed the Detective’s boots still had bits of muddy leaves attached, “Caught you out, did I, Sir?” The detective looked surprised and puzzled. He followed Spider Web’s eyes to his boots. “Ah… you are quite observant, Constable. Yes, I had a walk in this morning. Clearing up, you know. Now, what’s this about our dear Mr Robin Cock?” The insincerity was not hidden. Hawk had been the Desk officer when Robin Cock had first called from the hamlet’s Georgian Farmhouse, famed for it’s china collection, which Mr Cock bought cheap and sold for exorbitant prices.

They trudged through the snow, with Miss Fly in attendance to point out the body. Mrs Cock was too well gone with an empty Whisky bottle at her side to be of any use, desperate to look poised in one of the Louis 15^tharmchairs. With smeared lipstick and dark tear-lines of mascara, she muttered, in a slurred voice, “The last thing I said to him a was, ‘Nobody wants you.’ Am I a wicked woman? He was a Bastard, you know. I loved him, really loved him. Insufferable Bastard.”

The spot was easy to find. A single Longbow Arrow arose from the lumpy white blanket. The coloured feather fletches at the end of arrow were quite distinctive to Constable Web. Expensive, yet only used once. Inspector Hawk remarked, “You appear to know a lot about archery, Web. Something you need to tell me, before I call Doctor Fish to do the forensics?”

Before Spider could think of a reply, Miss Fly piped up, “I saw him die, you know”. She sounded so casual the policemen almost missed it. Hawk turned, beady-eyed and suspicious, “Did you see who fired the arrow?”

Miss Fly paused while thinking, “No, I didn’t. Mr Cock appeared to be waiting for someone. He was certainly annoyed. He even swore at me for being in his wood. HIS wood, I ask you. I checked with Mr Lark, that nice Town Clerk, and this is all Common Land, not part of the Anbull estate at all.” She quelled her trembling anger. Blushing rose pink with embarrassment, she muttered at the white mound, “Anyway, he breathed his last when he lambasted the Good Lord’s Name. A Righteous Arrow, in my view.”

“Why were you here?” Hawk asked.

It was like she ruffled her feathers, “If you must know, I was on my way to see Ivana, and tell her about the green eyed monster who is… was… that vile man’s mistress. A hussy of the worse sort. A common barmaid in a public house called ‘The Linnet.’ A den of iniquity by all accounts.”

Constable Web looked at DS Hawk, “But that’s your local, isn’t it, Sir?”

The detective gave Spider Web a hard look. “Get this area sealed off, Constable. We don’t want villagers running all over this crime scene, do we?” The voice was as cold as the bitter weather.

//Now read Part 2//