Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series (28 page)

It had been common knowledge from the beginning that the man had died from multiple gunshot and arrowhead wounds. The police forensic experts had surmised that he had fallen under a fusillade from at least half a dozen gunmen, archers and crossbowmen. These apparently skilful marksmen, firing, it was said, from somewhere within the farm area, had infiltrated themselves, and similarly made their getaway, without leaving any trace. Taken by itself, this was remarkable but not beyond the realms of possibility. Perhaps some secret government body had accordingly noted the existence of a group of armed subversives (renegade SAS? premature
Spetsnaz
?) in the area and marked our village down for a special going over in the event of national emergency.

However, what made our piece of local bloodshed peculiar, even bizarre, was the nature of the weapons used. The coroner commented that the murderers would appear to have raided a museum in order to arm themselves. Weapons specialists, in the service of the police, had identified three different types of lead projectiles in the body of the deceased. All of them were musket balls, delivered from three different muzzle-loading firearms by means of loose, black gunpowder. The arrows had come from old style, unenhanced longbows; arrows that were, moreover, precise copies of fourteenth century types. Completing the lethal dosage was a heavy iron crossbow bolt—not like one used in the present day, but a bolt which had an exact brother in the Tower of London Armoury, in an exhibit labelled fifteenth century. It was impossible to say which had killed the man. Any of them could have, and all of them did.

The expert had concluded his submission with a comment sufficiently striking to merit inclusion in the subsequent press reports. It was, he said, as if the workman had been killed by enemies from many ages.

We, who were aware of the background to the case, suspected, in our darker moments, that he was wiser than he knew.

*  *  *

I would like to be able to say that the War of the Badgers ended there, but it did not. Two obstinate, self-assured ways of thought were engaged in a struggle from which only one could walk away. Skirmishing continued for several weeks. Wheldon sought to re-engage the Ministry’s death-dealing services, but the operatives’ union demanded a degree of danger money and (armed) security that made it prohibitive. To compensate for this frustrating setback, he shot a well known and much loved old dog from the village whose final roam may have taken her onto Senlac Farm land. The carcass was dumped by the roadside to serve as an example—though of what exactly, opinions varied.

Retaliation was, of course, inevitable. Some agile person mounted the farmhouse roof in the dead of night and painted on it a huge black swastika. When day dawned, it was clearly visible from the village and even further afield, and was the cause of great hilarity in the forty-eight hours it took the farm labourers to erase the mark. Some less imaginative person, clearly in the grip of powerful emotions, hurled a brick at Wheldon’s Bentley as it passed by, before escaping unseen into the network of footpaths and alleyways that criss-crossed the estate.

The wearied police were periodically called in as incident succeeded incident, but there was little they could do. Theirs was the archetypal dilemma of humane colonial administration facing a disaffected, insurgent population. They had neither the manpower to enforce their will nor enough will to supply the necessary degree of repression. Their ranks were, moreover, riddled with Binscomites and similar potential fifth-columnists. It was probably no coincidence that Mr Disvan, among others to the forefront of events, always seemed exceedingly well informed on the authorities’ current thinking.

It looked clear, to me at least, that events were escalating to the point where further blood would be spilled—and not necessarily that of the canine community.

Then, against all expectation and all we knew of Wheldon’s character, he and his family disappeared from the scene. Before long, it was common currency (the state of labour relations at the farm being such that Wheldon could have few secrets from us) that they had taken a sudden, extended holiday in the USA—or New World, as Mr Disvan would have called it.

It was a victory of sorts and, in the Argyll, the muggers of New York or Miami or wherever were wished good hunting. Word reached us that a new, more reasonable regime was temporarily in power at the farm.

However, Wheldon survived the Binscomites’ transatlantic evil eye and returned, like malaria or herpes (as Doctor Bani-Sadr put it) after an absence of some months. For a week we heard nothing of him, all the time expecting hostilities to recommence in some spectacular way. People speculated on what deadly weapons he might have acquired in the States or what Mafiosi links he might have called upon.

In the event, the saga was not moved on by a hail of bullets or visits from men in dark glasses. Instead, with, it must be said, commendable courage, Wheldon drove his Bentley down to the Argyll one evening and came in alone to request an interview with Mr Disvan.

As can be readily imagined, the atmosphere in the bar was, to put it mildly, tense. The landlord made as if to tell Wheldon he was barred (on his very first visit) but Disvan prevented this with a wave of his hand. The farm manager then joined us, drinkless and welcome-less, at our table.

‘I need to see you,’ he said curtly to Mr Disvan.

‘I wasn’t aware of being invisible,’ replied Disvan. ‘Look all you want.’

‘And talk to you.’

‘Well, go ahead then.’

‘At Senlac Farm.’

‘Why there, particularly?’

Wheldon looked distinctly out of patience but managed to control most of his feelings.

‘I rather thought you might already know the answer to that,’ he said.

‘Let’s assume I don’t.’

‘If not, you soon will. Are you going to come or aren’t you?’

‘I will—with a witness. Is Mr Oakley acceptable?’

‘Whoever. I don’t care.’

Disvan turned to me and raised his eyebrows in an inquisitive gesture. ‘Well, Mr Oakley?’

Despite any evidence at all to support my good opinion, I still thought of myself as a moderating influence in this toy town vendetta. With hopes of keeping Mr Disvan out of trouble inappropriate to his age, I agreed to accompany him.

Within minutes we were speeding towards Senlac Farm. Wheldon was an accomplished driver who seemed to be merely assisting the large car rather than directing it. At the speed limit plus sixty percent, the journey was not a long one, and having made it innumerable times before I did not pay the surroundings much attention.

However, when we slowed to a Highway Code-prescribed halt at the Compton crossroads, I did notice something out of the ordinary. A man in overalls was standing by the roadside, his arms hanging limply by his side, staring dully into the car. It is only natural to glance briefly at a passing vehicle, but I’ve always felt that a gaze maintained for more than a few seconds is rudeness mounting rapidly into insult. And what I barely tolerated in Frenchmen (particular devotees of the shameless stare), I had even less time for in my fellow Binscomites. Therefore, as we accelerated on and, sure enough, the man turned his head to see us go, I expressed my opinion of him with a vigorous hand gesture. Wheldon noticed my action.

‘I’m glad you can see him too,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Never mind, you’ll find out.’

Very shortly after this exchange, we arrived at Senlac Farm. Wheldon showed us into the house without ceremony. It was made very clear that we would never have crossed the threshold but for this urgent and disagreeable matter of business.

I observed a lithe, panther-like spring in Mr Disvan’s steps, more to be expected in a much younger, fitter man than he. Striding like a conquering general through the various hallways, drawing and sitting rooms en route, he looked contemptuously at the plush furnishings and sundry appurtenances of wealth. There was no sign of Wheldon’s family, nor any token of their recent presence. I had the strong feeling that we were otherwise alone in the large house.

Shown to a tiny room that clearly served as an office, we found what seating we could. I perched uncomfortably and at some tactical disadvantage on an old piano stool. Mr Disvan sat facing Wheldon in a battered armchair.

‘Well,’ said the former abruptly, ‘what now?’

Wheldon was glancing through some papers on his desk. We no longer seemed to have his full attention.

‘We wait,’ he said, ‘but probably not for long. It usually happens around nine.’

‘What happ—’

Mr Disvan raised his finger to his lips and thereby silenced me. I decided not to be offended but to trust in his judgement—on this occasion.

The minutes dragged by. We were not offered refreshments. Wheldon continued to read and sign documents. I looked round and round the room, searching for diversion, and found that it was utterly devoid of any non- functional embellishment. For want of anything else to do, I tried to judge whether Wheldon’s long sideburns were dyed or not and ended up, after a very leisurely consideration, in giving him the benefit of the doubt. After that, I set to wondering if my boredom threshold would extend all the way to nine o’clock. Mr Disvan appeared to know what was in my mind and nodded to me as if to counsel patience.

At last, at around a quarter to the hour, the monotony was broken by a loud knock at the farmhouse front door. Wheldon looked up but said nothing. A few seconds later the knock sounded again, this time a little louder still.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘that’s it. Go and see for yourself and then come back.’

I was entirely puzzled. Why should we answer Wheldon’s door for him?  Mr Disvan took the lead, however, and motioned for me to follow him out of the room.

By the time we two reached the entrance lobby, the caller had knocked several more times—latterly with strength enough, I thought, to tear the door off its hinges. The vaguest sense of unease had by now edged into my thinking.

We looked at the blank door and then I jumped as another hammer blow landed on it. By rights, the panels should have splintered and cracked but the door did not so much as move.

‘Are we going to open it?  I asked.

Disvan gave the negative response that I’d hoped for.

‘I doubt that would be wise,’ he said, with a calmness I didn’t find reassuring. ‘Let’s have a squint at the visitor first.’

He went to the door and leant forward to look through the spy-hole lens fitted in it. He observed silently for maybe half a minute and then stepped back.

‘Ah...’ he said slowly, as if some minor suspicion had just been confirmed. ‘No, I don’t think we’ll be opening the door, Mr Oakley.’

‘Why not?’

Another thunderbolt landed.

‘See for yourself.’

‘Should I?’

‘Why not? It might be of interest to you.’

I was always keen to be interested and, despite misgivings, went to take a look.

It took a while for my eye to adjust to the relative darkness outside. When it did, I suddenly longed for the fuzzy indistinctness to return.

After a few very long seeming seconds, I watched an overalled arm rise to strike the door again. A red flecked fist appeared to come straight towards me and I flinched back.

The blow, the loudest yet, sounded and echoed through the house. Mr Disvan led me away.

‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ I said quietly.

‘Are you well, Mr Oakley?’ asked Disvan. ‘You look very pale.’

‘Answer my damn question.’

‘Sorry. Yes, it’s him. The dead workman.’

‘I thought so, although... it’s hard to tell. I saw him at Compton Crossroads, you see.’