Sacrificial Lamb: Septimus Plant Investigates, #2

By Ruth Parry

With the beastly discovery of Harold Wassop's body in Lowchester Wood, unfortunately, there are no witnesses or, indeed, clues to follow.

Could this be a straightforward suicide?

The victim, a brusque individual who many despised, is unlikely to gain much sympathy. Perhaps a satanic twist, or worse. Soon, the chase is on to snare the enigmatic killer.

Could this be the perfect crime?

In an isolated spot, the waxy-coloured corpse is surrounded by an unusual triangular structure of twigs and shrubs.

Could the scene depict a subliminal message?

Enticing the local gossips and amateur sleuths alike in a desperate bid to uncover the truth, the press pack are quick to sensationalise the headline 'The Sacrificial Lamb' with Harold Wassop, the prevaricator, sprawled across the broadsheets.
While the puzzled Lowchester Constabulary pursues the case, which is full of misdirection, Constable Septimus Plant is swift to construct a list of suspects. But sadly, their alibis all check out.

With the rumour mill in full throttle, there's only one question―what is the motive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruth Parry
• Release date: May 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224085965

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I’m standing, peering through the station window, my feet apart, arms folded neatly across my chest, procrastinating. My focus for today is the residents of Lowchester in an attempt to appease this persistent boredom. I'm pretty good at translating nonverbal communication. In other words, decoding an untold story. People watching can reveal a lot about a place and its residents, the mood of the inhabitants, likes, dislikes, that sort of thing. Contemplating individuals and their miserable existence trapped in this backwater has become a favoured pastime of mine. Why? Because I’m an ambitious type of guy, which comes as a bit of a shock to those who see me as the timid Constable Plant.

Unhurried, the locals, dressed in an array of colours for the sunshine, go about their business. You see, on reflection, the past couple of years have been difficult for me with the departure of a close personal friend. In the main, I focus on trivia, a distraction technique. My latest whim is interpreting the silent body language of the weak, inconspicuous residents of Lowchester.

Quickly losing interest, I glance down at my notebook and pencil, which lie redundant on the desk. It contains my latest instalment for Rex Howard (my alter ego), which is ready to broadcast on Murder Hour later in the week. I have cast aside the notebook and my library books and have reassured the radio station that the completed article, Murder in Mind, will arrive tout suite because everyone loves a good murder mystery, right? I just need to add the finishing touches to a well-crafted plot. Secretly, I crave a good murder; shake this place up a bit. My nostrils twitch, recalling the smell of a fresh corpse and those frantic moments that follow death. Eyes seeking spilled blood the colour of claret. An extraordinary crime with the power to arouse my professional curiosity. Ah, I love this time of year, I state to no one in particular, stretching my arms above my head and yawning. That’s when I spot her, Beatrix Brown, quite the rare beauty in these parts, and she knows it, floating around the village of Lowchester. Trixie, as she likes to be known, carries a hint of the Orient with skin as pale as buttercream and a head of ebony hair that hangs poker-straight, bringing spilt ink to mind. But those deep, dark eyes, the colour of burnt sugar, hide a multitude of secrets.

You wanna give that one a wide berth. I turn swiftly, having heard the laboured footfalls. I’m greeted by Sergeant Horsham, who displays a stern cast of features. He clutches a mug of muddy-coloured tea in his right hand and joins me at the viewpoint. I shrug with indifference.

Lowchester, you see, like many small villages, is run by the rumour mill, which is quick to report that Trixie was a babe in arms when she arrived in the village. The circumstances surrounding her arrival generated a scandal, not least by her being the granddaughter of Major Brown, who was originally a local. Some believed Major Brown was a free thinker, while others considered him a fool. I suppose it depends on your outlook. Having shunned the British class system in favour of a life spent in the Orient, Major Brown served the trading port of Singapore, an international spice route. I ponder how glamorous this must be, sensationalising the facts. I have listened intently to the stories, for professional purposes, of course. The Major’s life in the British colony would have been good for a while, exciting even, breaking away from the monotony of routine, before he married a Singaporean named Mai. She was reported to be a woman of great beauty. Sadly, their happiness was short-lived when she passed during a complicated childbirth, producing the Major’s only child, a daughter whom he christened Evelyn after his beloved mother. Close friends believed the infant was a constant reminder of the Major’s loss and was subsequently shipped off to England to her paternal grandmother and namesake and educated at boarding school. And so the cycle of emotional neglect began for these beautiful Brown women who didn’t understand the true depth of love and used their beauty to its full potential. A sorry state of affairs when history repeats itself.

With it being a particularly slow morning, I take the opportunity to slope off into the back office to tweak my latest instalment for Murder Hour. Rex Howard has become quite a hit with the locals. However, while I’m deliberating over a delicious murder—fictional, of course—Mrs Wassop arrives all of a fluster at the reception desk, and the words ‘wild goose chase’ spring to mind.

It’s my son Harold. He’s missing. On hearing the fraught words, I actively seek an escape route.

Constable Plant! Sarge bellows in a business-like manner while Polly, our typist, stifles a knowing giggle.

Yes, Sarge. Grimacing, I poke my head around the door, and on seeing Mrs Wassop, I physically cringe. The local busybody is a strange-looking creature with brittle hair, dark like pewter and an anaemic skin tone. She chatters on, lips moving ten to the dozen, and a coarse layer of hair sprouts from her top lip and chin.

The problem I have is Mrs Wassop spends nearly as much time at the police station as I do, reporting trivia: a lost cat or a stolen pint of milk. Oh, and nine months ago, she disclosed damage to her property. This turned out to be a decapitated garden gnome; someone took the head clean off. I believe the culprit was young Joey, the delivery lad from the general store, taking revenge because she took a swipe at him over a broken egg amongst her weekly groceries, though nothing was ever proven.

Harold hasn’t been home! All weekend! Her features are rigid.

Poor Harold has probably taken himself off somewhere. Perhaps he needs a break from his mother's constant mithering. I deliberate on how best to broach the subject tactfully whilst sounding sincere.

When did you see Harold last? I ask.

Friday. I just said! Her facial muscles tense again. Talk about body language! But her eyes implore my assistance. I am, after all, a representative of the law.

So that would be Friday the eighteenth of July? Three days ago?

Slowly, she nods while I scribble down the details. Then, her shoulders begin to shake. God no, she’s not going to start blubbering.

I plated his supper up before I left.

Mmm.

Best lamb chops.

Really? Lucky bugger, I think with envy. I can’t remember the last time I ate lamb, and with that thought, my stomach growls—loudly.

Yesterday, I visited that ex-wife of his.

Mrs Wassop flushes a pinkish colour, probably contemplating the shame associated with divorce. Silly when two people can no longer stand each other should saddle themselves with a lifetime of misery.

Alice? I enquire, licking my lips because my mind is still on those lamb chops cooked to perfection with a thin layer of fat.

Yes. I detect the animosity in her voice.

Alice Elder was a slip of a thing with bright-red hair and a temper to match, if rumours are true. That was before she hitched her wagon to Harold Wassop. Prior to that, she ran Braithwaite Bond Trading Company efficiently, by all accounts.

Quentin Braithwaite, one of the brokers on the stock market, was in direct competition with Harold Wassop. Many believed Harold’s exceptional good luck was insider information, making a killing on confidential material. The gossips agreed Alice must have provided by taking advantage of her privileged position. The suggestion was subsequently investigated and hushed up like many of these scandals, and finally, the interest subsided. Nothing was proven; it was mere speculation, so the co-conspirators took their spoils and married, heading off into the sunset. That was five years ago. I suppose they hate each other by now because Harold turned up on his mother’s doorstep some eleven months ago, professing to be penniless. So we’ve reached the thieves-falling-out stage of the drama. Their relationship was all a bit cloak and dagger for my liking.

I’ve telephoned his place of work and that one he’s been walking out with.

Who’s that, Mrs Wassop?

Beatrix Brown. This pricks my interest. And his best pal, too.

Roly Pritchard?

Mrs Wassop nods in the affirmative before plonking herself down in the vacant seat opposite me. One can safely assume she isn’t going anywhere.

No one’s seen sight nor sound of him, Constable. She leans forward, and I get the distinct whiff of mothballs.

Oh. I screw up my nostrils and accept my fate. Rex Howard will have to wait a while longer and I decide to get down to business.

Glancing up, I witness Sarge loitering by the station door. Unconcerned, his features cast a sly grin. He is distancing himself from this whole fiasco. It’s official: I have been hoodwinked.

I just knew something was going to happen, Mrs Wassop says. I glance back at her before enquiring,

How so? I must admit she does look rather gaunt today.

Friday, I visited that clairvoyant. I only hear a fragmented conversation because my mind wanders and is on other things, but then Mrs Wassop bursts into tears. Her shoulders rise and fall, and snot bubbles from her nostrils. I gawk at her tear-stained face, physically distancing myself. I become emotionally vacant. I’m not good in such situations; my mother called it emotional detachment.

Polly arrives carrying a cup of hot sweet tea while I thank God for small mercies. I’m not what you would call a tactile person, and the thought of pacifying Mrs Wassop fills me with dread.

What would we do without you, Pol? I say, to which the typist blushes profusely.

Oh, shut up, Septimus.

Tipping out the contents of her handbag, Mrs Wassop searches for a clean, white handkerchief. She looks marginally relieved when she locates the item.

I muse that this God-fearing woman seems to have physically shrunk. It must have occurred during the past couple of years. Her clothes hang limp, and her old, felt hat she wears nearly covers her teary eyes.

Sitting opposite her, I complete detailed notes. I’m nothing if not thorough. Her confidence in Lowchester Constabulary isn't misplaced.

Has he done this sort of thing before? I ask. Exasperated, the distraught lady wrings her hands, probably visualising squeezing my scrawny neck.

This isn’t some sort of a hoax, Constable Plant. I nod, trying to look like I am thinking of a reasonable or logical explanation for Harold’s sudden departure when, in fact, I can probably summon half a dozen. The main one sits directly opposite me. What kind of a woman do you take me for?

I’m sorry, Mrs Wassop, but police work dictates I examine every avenue.

Are you listening to me, Constable? Her voice is shrill, attacking my thought process like fingernails down a blackboard.

Indeed, I am, madam. Two can play at your game, I concur.

Suddenly, the telephone on the main desk rings. Saved by the bell! Swift to excuse myself, I make my escape and head into the front office.

Lowchester Constabulary, two one two seven. Constable Plant speaking. How may I be of assistance?

It’s me, you pillock! Of course, I’d know Sarge’s gruff voice anywhere. Has that bloody woman left yet? Sarge drops his voice to a low growl.

Right, I see.

Botheration, Septimus.

The Lowchester High Road, you say?

What? Sarge sounds bemused.

I can be there in ten minutes, there or thereabouts. I pause, taking a breath for dramatic effect.

Oh, I see. Sarge takes the hint. Silently, I replace the receiver and head back to Mrs Wassop, who I’m confident has been eavesdropping.

I’m sorry, Mrs Wassop, but I must attend to an urgent matter. She produces a speculative look, not entirely satisfied by my explanation. I shall endeavour to get to the bottom of Harold’s absence. Briefly, Mrs Wassop hesitates. Her features depict irritation. Is she going to add something? I am thankful when she doesn’t. But me and my big mouth, I throw in a false platitude. In most cases, it’s simply a matter of someone going off, having a good time. I flash Mrs Wassop a sympathetic grin, then continue. These youngsters forget to mention their whereabouts to family and friends.

Harold is hardly a youngster! Mrs Wassop snaps, walking brusquely towards the exit. I brace myself, expecting a barrage of angry words or, at the very least, one of her sour looks, only on this occasion none are forthcoming.

With a spring in my step, having shed the negative energy, I exit the police station with eyes that worship my Vincent Black Shadow gleaming in all her glory—a high-performance machine. Every time I straddle the motorcycle, I grin, feeling the raw power throb between my thighs. It’s a glorious day, leaving behind Mrs Wassop and her nonsense. On checking my wristwatch, twelve forty-four stares back at me. It’s nearly lunchtime, and Sarge cleared off first.

I make a spur-of-the-moment decision. Twisting the throttle, I’m away, cruising through the Lowchester countryside, freeing my restless spirit. But my mind keeps returning to Harold and Alice Wassop, an intelligent couple who opened an investment company. Suffice to say, they were not short of a bob or two, and with no children to support, surely the divorce would have been perfectly straightforward. On that note, one would have thought Harold could do better than his mother’s spare bedroom.

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Chuckling to himself, Bob Horsham meanders along the country lane, checking his pocket watch when he sees Septimus fly past on the Vincent Black Shadow, indicating that the crotchety, old woman has vacated his police station. If complaining were an Olympic sport, Mrs Wassop would be a gold medallist. He ponders what the athletes from Finland would make of her.

Bob secretly admires his young protégé, who is still ambitious, fit and reasonably cheerful most of the time. Septimus is pretty easy-going, although a bit socially awkward, and there was that debacle the other year with Ethel Caulsters, but that’s all forgotten now.

On the other hand, Bob would describe himself as working class, mildly left-wing, a union man, which he keeps under his hat, with it being frowned upon by management, and a Christian, although not rabidly so. But where the Brown women are concerned, it’s another story.

Reluctantly, Bob retrieves a memory, something he seldom does. It’s dangerous and has the power to wound. Several decades ago, the young Bob Horsham and Evelyn Brown (Beatrix Brown’s mother) went walking out together, and he fell hook, line and sinker. They were the talk of Lowchester and made a beautiful young couple. He planned to ask Evelyn to marry him, bought the ring and everything, but for some reason, he dithered. There was a side to Evelyn that concerned Bob. She spent her formative years educated by the stern-faced women clutching their rosary beads and wooden crosses—disciplinarians who preached forgiveness but seldom practised it. It was a side Evelyn kept hidden. We all have secrets.

Then one day she disappeared, no explanation, nothing! When the young Constable called, Evelyn Senior chased young Bob and put a flea in his ear, bewildering the youngster. It was some years before Bob was ready to court again. This time, he picked the homely type, sensible, perhaps not particularly sociable, as Bob couldn’t face another letdown. That was a lifetime ago. Swiftly, Bob closes down the sentimental claptrap, not ready to revisit the past.

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My stomach rumbles again. It must be approaching one o’clock when I find myself heading towards the woods. It’s a place I seldom visit, well, not since Ethel and her twin left for Australia. That’s another story for another day, one I daren’t think about.

I couldn't say what led me to Lowchester Woods today. The Vincent seemed to have a mind of her own, a bit like my Ethel. That thought brings a smile to my lips. Perhaps I just needed the open space and fresh air. I park up on the pretext of putting the finishing touches to my story. Yes, that’s what I shall do. Turning my wrist, I glance at the time; it is twelve fifty-seven.

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Lowchester Constabulary, two one two seven. Sergeant Horsham speaking. How may I help you?

Glancing at the station clock, which reads twelve fifty-seven, Bob hopes it isn’t Mrs Wassop again. Being a creature of habit, he likes to eat his lunch at one o’clock prompt. However, it’s Harold Wassop’s employer expressing concern, undoubtedly prompted by a visit from Mrs Wassop. The local branch of the bank also made contact earlier. They've probably had the woman barking orders. After a bit of polite small talk, Bob records their concern, but his mind is focused on the roast beef sandwich slathered in mustard waiting to be devoured.

Cuppa, Sarge? Polly calls through from the kitchen when she overhears Bob mumbling something about, That bloody awful woman!

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Billy Richards has taken it upon himself to snare rabbits in Lowchester Woods. Mr Bates, the disgraced handyman, seldom ventures through the manor gates these days, and the rabbit damage to the vegetable patch at the manor house is cause for concern. Young Billy is sensitive to noise in these parts, having spent his formative years poaching in the woods and stops when he hears pacing. He takes cover. Silent and stealthy, he moves amongst the shrubbery, where he sees Septimus Plant. Billy reads his watch, which has a cracked face and was discarded by Master Gordon up at the manor house. It is twelve fifty-eight, and Billy concludes Sep must be taking his lunch break, although this is a tad unusual because Sep hasn't set foot in these woods since the twins departed three years ago. He’s about to call out to tell Septimus the good news about completing his apprenticeship and now being a fully qualified groundsman, with a certificate and everything. But he sees something, a faraway look in his friend’s eyes, so on this occasion, he decides that it is best not to intrude.

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It’s no good. I can’t seem to concentrate today. I don’t know what led me to this isolated spot, haunted by memories of a failed romance and what could have been. Instead of diverting my attention by completing my plot, I light up a fag and stretch my limbs before heading back to the station. I anticipate a rollicking from Sarge on my return for leaving the station unmanned, but nothing ever happens in Lowchester. Well, not anymore, and perhaps that’s the point. I need something to occupy my curious mind.

I’m feeling peckish, and thoughts of Connie’s Confectioners bombard my mind. I could pick up a bit of lunch and pacify Bob with a cake. He’s a slave to his sweet tooth, favouring the chocolate éclair.

Maudlin, I make to exit the wood when I stumble upon something discarded amongst the shrubbery. I stub out my fag; this scene requires further investigation. From a distance, it resembles a mannequin, and my mind contemplates some churlish prank. Probably the village children on their summer break. Stealthily, I move a little closer, using the unadopted path which leads to the discarded dummy. But nature has a language of its own, and time slows as I heed its warning. My mind is switched on, and there’s a distinct odour hanging in the air, that of death. Intrigued, I suppress a wry grin, massaging my chin, before moving closer to inspect.

Instantly, I recognise the features.

Harold Bloody Wassop!

An image is immortalised in my mind. My heart races and blood pumps through my veins, not out of fear but out of professional curiosity. Death is the end of the story for Harold Wassop yet the beginning of mine. A silent sorrow hangs in the air. Instinctively, I take another step, drawn to the drama of the situation. My keen eyes scan the waxy-coloured skin of the stark naked corpse, and my mind erupts with a frenzy of ideas. Crouching to perform a closer examination, I see the jaw is loose, and the mouth is slack, hanging to one side. I ponder Harold Wassop’s final words. The rest of his body appears rigid. Calm and detached, I pluck the pencil nestled behind my ear in readiness to record a concise account of any incident. My eyes sweep the immediate surroundings, desperately seeking the victim's unspoken message. Preoccupied with death, I sketch the triangular symbol smeared in blood on the torso, which has sparked my curiosity. Perhaps the noble act of the cheat and liar who fell on his sword. There is something about the scene that doesn’t sit right. Would a distraught individual on the verge of taking their own life mess about staging the scene. There doesn’t seem to be a note, either. Harold Wassop was an obstinate individual at the best of times. I wonder who will mourn such a selfish person.

Immersed in death, I hear something behind me and spin around while I surreptitiously blend into the surroundings. Young Billy Richards approaches, appearing from nowhere. His face is ashen, and I think he may be about to vomit. Blocking his path, I hear the lad retch.

Gordon Bennett! His words are softly spoken, yet his body trembles. He appears rooted to the spot.

Don’t look, Billy, I instruct. The youngster appears in a nervous state. Placing my hands firmly on his shoulders, I turn him around, bend forward, and crouch at eye level to emphasise the fact.

Could you do something for me, Billy?

Yeah, Sep. Anyfink.

I grip his shoulders to offer moral support and feel his body shudder. Get on your bicycle and pedal as fast as your legs will carry you. When you reach the manor house, telephone the station. Tell Sergeant Horsham to come directly.

Mutely, he nods. He is in shock, whereas I secretly marvel at the opportunity that has presented itself. Absurd as it may sound, morbid even, I must confess that investigating is in my blood. It’s what drives me; it’s what I do best. Instantly, my mind sensationalises tomorrow’s headlines: Suicide or Satanic Sacrifice? I’m doing it again, fantasising, but then I hear young Billy’s sobs.

Sorry, Billy, I say.

Billy’s off pedalling through the woods, leaving me alone with the corpse and a window of opportunity. Being a keen student of human nature makes for the attentive spectator. Therefore, I conclude that Harold Wassop’s lifeless body lies redundant in the waste of his blood. The individual retains a lifetime of secrets, thus rousing one's professional curiosity because something about this overall picture doesn't sit right with me. I perform a detailed examination of the corpse. The barren body is surrounded by an unusual structure of twig and shrubbery. I scribble down the detail. Inhaling deeply, I get the unmistakable whiff of decomposing flesh, that of a body returning to the earth. However, the triangular structure temporarily distracts me. Could this be a subliminal message from beyond the grave?

Bending, I summarise the victim, which demands my undivided attention, desperate to make sense of a scene that has been so carefully constructed. Could this be the hopeless act of someone intentionally taking one’s own life?

Quite extraordinary!

My handwriting is an eligible scrawl in a desperate attempt to record the preliminaries. On closer examination, the victim’s eyes are tightly closed. He looks as though he may be sleeping.

Moving clockwise, I scan how the corpse is arranged within the pyramid structure. Perhaps it has been staged to confuse or mislead any forthcoming criminal investigation. The point of the triangle, I observe, is downturned. I’m sure I read somewhere that