The Planting of the Penny Hedge Read online

  The Planting

  of the

  Penny Hedge

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or if real are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 9781070350479

  First published 2019 by Follow This Publishing, Yorkshire (UK)

  Text © 2019 Chris Turnbull

  Cover Design © 2019 Joseph Hunt of Incredibook Design

  The right of Chris Turnbull to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording without prior permission from the publisher.

  Copyright © 2019 Chris Turnbull

  All rights reserved.

  For Jean & Trevor

  ALSO BY CHRIS TURNBULL

  The Vintage Coat

  Carousel

  D: Darkest Beginnings

  D: Whitby’s Darkest Secret

  D: Revenge Hits London

  It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas

  A Home For Emy

  Emy Gets A Sister

  A Detective Matthews Novel

  -1-

  The Planting

  of the

  Penny Hedge

  Chris Turnbull

  “Every blade has two edges; he who wounds with one wounds himself with the other.”

  ― Victor Hugo

  Prologue

  Thursday 7th May 1891 – Whitby

  If this is another one of your practical jokes young Peter I will not be at all impressed.’ PC Williams scold the young boy. It was six o’clock in the morning and Peter, a ten-year-old harbour assistant, had woken up the constable by banging on his front door repeatedly until the old officer answered.

  ‘I ain’t messin’ I promise. Hurry up.’

  ‘Okay, okay…lead the way.’ Williams groaned as he threw on his boots and coat. Williams had been pranked by the young lad before, and was it not for the paled shocked expression on his face he may not have taken him seriously.

  ‘I was walkin’ along the cliff top sir, headed to the harbour for work and heard shouting from the beach below.’

  ‘What was it?’ Williams replied, already breathless trying to keep up with the young lad.

  ‘Old man shouting for ‘elp. I went down to see and he told me to fetch a copper. I knew you lived close so thought it be quicker than heading to the station.’

  ‘Where exactly is it you are taking me?’ PC Williams asked as Peter led him onto what looked like a deserted Whitby beach, a long stretch of brownish sand that was sat alongside the jagged clifftops. The beach was covered in seaweed, shells and the occasional jellyfish. As they sped across the beach towards the waters edge, which was receding in the early daylight, PC Williams finally saw the elderly gentleman who was stood waiting for them. He was wrapped up warm against the early morning sea breeze, a King Charles spaniel attached to the lead in his hand. He gave a wave to the constable as though trying to grab his attention, but Williams had already seen him and was running in his direction.

  Approaching the man Williams did not address him immediately, but instead his gaze was drawn down to the ground beside him. His eyes bulged with what was laid out before them both. He had to look away, covering his mouth he gagged as though to vomit, but nothing came out. He went to look again but immediately began to gag again.

  ‘Peter, I need you to run back to the police station for me please.’

  ‘But Sir…’

  ‘Now Peter! There will be somebody there, tell them where I am and that I need the chief here immediately. Go! Run!’ Peter took off back along the sand as quickly as he could, turning back only once, before disappearing in the direction of town.

  ‘What is your name sir?’ the constable asked the elderly man.

  ‘O’Sullivan, Ernest O’Sullivan. I live just down from the Pavilion on Havelock Place.’ Williams looked over his shoulder, the pavilion that dominated the cliff side was built from red brick and had only opened the previous year. Williams thought it was an eyesore against the beautiful coastline and spoilt the natural cliff faces. He brought his gaze back to Mr O’Sullivan, he didn’t want to look back to the ground next to him, but he knew he had to. There laid on the sand was the body of a man. Dressed in a simple navy blue long sleeved shirt and black trousers, the lifeless man donned heavy boots on his feet and was completely soaked. The tide, which was now retracting, still lapped as his feet. The dead man was not simply laid on the sand as though washed in by the tide, but in actual fact secured down to it. He lay on his back with his arms raised up to his face. A small fence like structure, no taller than a foot, and made of small wooden sticks, held the man in place by his neck and wrists.

  ‘Do you know this man?’ Williams asked the Mr O’Sullivan, again trying to avoid looking at the dead man.

  ‘No sir, I walked passed a while back when the tide was further in and didn’t see anything. But heading home the sea had gone out a wee bit and I could see the top half of him. It’s gone out more now.’

  ‘What time did you leave your house?’

  ‘Will be over half an hour ago, something like that.’ Mr O’Sullivan’s voice was croaky and he began to shiver in the cool breeze. His dog too was beginning to shake.

  ‘Could you write your full address down on my pad for me, just in case we need to contact you for further questions?’ Mr O’Sullivan took the pad and pencil. As he wrote a figure appeared on the cliffside, it was the chief of police. He could be seen hurrying across the beach at full speed alone.

  ‘What the blazers is this Williams?’ The chief’s deep booming voice echoed off the cliffs. ‘Do we have an ID?’

  ‘No sir, this is Mr O’Sullivan, found the body not too long ago. Doesn’t know who he is.’ The chief leaned into the body for a closer look. Williams admired his strong stomach, he had still only managed brief glimpses himself.

  ‘I’m curious to know if he died from drowning or if he was already dead before being put here,’ the chief stated, still lingering over the body. ‘Certainly not anybody I know. I’m surprised this wooden structure around him didn’t get taken away with the tide, it doesn’t look strong enough to withstand a single tide; and a big strapping young man like this surely wouldn’t of found it a struggle being restrained in these twigs.’

  ‘What the hell happened?’ Williams said under his breath, the chief did not hear him. He took a more longing look at the corpse. His clothes were drenched and clinging to the body. Despite his clear youth the sea water had dried out his skin, causing it to be wrinkled with red blotches all over it, as well as white dried out dead skin from the salt. It had certainly made him look much older than he undoubtedly was.

  ‘Is back up coming to help us move him?’ Williams asked.

  ‘Too bloody right, I ain’t moving this fella with just you. This obviously isn’t a normal crime scene now is it Williams, the tide will have washed all the bloody evidence away; so we’ll have to get him off to the coroner to be checked over as quickly as we can.’ He lit a cigarette and offered one to both Williams and Mr O’Sullivan, both of whom refused. ‘Poor bastard,’ he continued, puffing on his cigarette, ‘Back up better bloody hurry up, I don’t want the Gazette catching wind of this before we can move him.’

  Chapter 1

  Thursday 7th May 1891 - York

  Benjami
n Matthews slammed his suitcase closed in anger and lit a cigarette to calm himself. He sat on the edge of his single bed and inhaled his smoke until his temper mellowed. He was dressed in smart trousers, clean shirt and waistcoat; his usual attire. His short brown hair was slicked back and he was clean shaven. He was tall and lean and had the most striking green eyes that stood out from across the room, and a smile that could charm most. He took out a pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket, originally his grandfather’s, which he had inherited after his passing, and checked the time, almost time to leave.

  Outside the window of his rented room the bells of York Minster began to chime midday. Matthews stood and glanced out of his window for the last time. He had enjoyed living in York for the past two years; the view itself was outstanding of the towering Minster. Having one of the largest cathedrals in northern Europe as his daily view he thought of as a treat, with its towers dominating every other building in the city, and its gothic architecture making it by far the most stunning building Matthews had ever laid eyes on. Today the blue skies framed the Minster magnificently. In the street below horse and carts raced along among the hustle and bustle of the cities many residents, all going about their everyday business. He had his single suitcase ready to go.

  Matthews was a police officer, he had trained since being a teenager; and had moved to York just over two years ago when he was offered a constabulary position. Now twenty-four he finally felt as though he had made it on his own. He had achieved his dream of being an officer just as his father had and was living somewhere he loved. Everything was going just had he had hoped; that was up until the previous week when he had been called into the chiefs office to be given some news. His father, head of police at Whitby, had put in a request to have him transferred back to Whitby as soon as possible. Presuming that this was what Matthews wanted the chief simply signed the paperwork necessary to allow it, and called a meeting with him a couple of days later to let Matthews know when he was leaving. The chief was taken by surprise when he was faced with confusion and anger about this. Matthews had never spoken to his father about returning to Whitby, and it certainly wasn’t something he would gladly agree to. After the meeting he was irate with his father for not discussing it with him first, he didn’t want to be back in Whitby under his father’s control, or even worse, seen as the chief’s son. In York he had the freedom to be himself, and his achievements felt like his own.

  His final week in York had passed much quicker than he could have imagined. He didn’t have much belongings to take with him, with the majority of his clothes fitting into one medium sized leather suitcase. He had been renting a single room above a bakery on High Petergate, he would certainly miss the smell of the freshly baked bread each morning.

  Eventually a carriage pulled up outside, a small cart with an open seated area and pulled by a single brown horse. The sight of this cart made Matthews pleased the rain that had been constant all morning had finally stopped. He grabbed his suitcase and put on his navy coloured knee length coat and black bowler hat and made his way down the rickety stairs.

  He stopped briefly in the bakery to hand over his keys to Mrs Lindgren, his landlady and bakery owner, before heading out onto the noisy street. Being Thursday lunchtime, the city was at its busiest and the morning rain had left behind a petrichor scent in the air, which Matthews couldn’t resist filling his nostrils with one last time. He hopped over a puddle in the doorway and waved down the driver in acknowledgement who was waiting for him.

  ‘Afternoon Matthews,’ the middle-aged carriage driver greeted him. ‘I suppose this’ll be our last ride together?’ The man, whose name was Neville, was a regular face around York and knew more people by name than Matthews thought possible. He always seemed to remember everything about people, and would often ask after his family by name, despite never meeting them, or asking after Matthews latest investigation.

  ‘Afternoon Neville, yes I’m afraid this is me leaving. Could we drop into the police station before you take me for the train, I need to drop off my badge and uniform?’

  ‘Sure thing sir.’

  Neville strapped down the suitcase to the back of the carriage. Matthews, who was also carrying a suit bag, laid this on the carriage seat next to him; it contained his police uniform which he had worn for the last time just the previous day. As they drove through the streets of York Matthews barely took any of it in to begin with. His hand rested on the suit bag and he could feel his badge inside. Determined not to put on a sour face, Matthews plastered a fake smile and brought his attention back to the passing buildings and streets so he could admire them for the last time in who knows how long.

  It was only a short distance to the train station, with the police station on route for him to hand over his things, he had been more than willing to walk but the York police chief had insisted he be given a lift. Neville spoke only to the horse as they made their way along the road. Matthews turned back occasionally to look at the Minster, which he felt sad to be leaving, and as they crossed Lendal bridge the Minster was lost from sight and Matthews sighed with anguish.

  At the police station Matthews ran inside with the suit bag, shouting back to Neville to wait for him.

  ‘Morning Jean,’ he greeted the receptionist who always wore bright dresses and fussed over all of the officers like she was their mother, ‘is the chief in?’

  ‘I’m sorry lad he’s in meetings all morning.’ She took the suit bag from him and placed it on a hook in the wall behind her. ‘That it then, you off today?’

  ‘Headed to the station right now, Jean.’

  ‘Oh come here.’ And she came from around the counter and pulled him in for a hug. She barely came up to his shoulder, even in her small heels. ‘The chief is disappointed to be losing you.’

  ‘I best go; Neville is waiting outside for me.’ And with that Matthews made a swift exit from the station, in the hope to escape before anybody else saw him, the last thing he wanted was any more pity goodbyes to be given.

  Back outside and Neville drove the horse drawn carriage around to the train station entrance, where he pulled up right outside the door. Matthews bid him a farewell and went to pay him for the ride but Neville refused the money.

  ‘Chiefs already covered this one, mate,’ he said with a smirk. ‘Now clear off before you miss the bloody thing.’ He sniggered at his own sarcasm. Matthews shook the man by the hand before reluctantly making his way inside. His train was due to leave in fifteen minutes and so he found himself somewhere to sit whilst he waited.

  Sitting on a hard, uncomfortable bench beside the track, the fifteen minutes seemed to last a lifetime. People of all walks of life were rushing around the busy station as trains arrived and departed from all across the station. The smell of burning coal and oily engines filled Matthews nostrils, he quite liked it; train travel was certainly his favourite mode of transport. He had even considered being a train driver in his youth, but it was the police that really excited him when it came to a career.

  The tracks in front of him began to vibrate and shudder, and moments later the sound of the steam engine clanging along the tracks echoed throughout the station. The platform was engulfed in smoke upon its arrival and Matthews stood and waited for the smoke to clear before he made for the carriage. A handful of people disembarked and even fewer people got on board. The small steam engine pulled along three passenger carriages, yet the train was so quiet that they could have all fit into one quite easily. Upon entering the first carriage Matthews stopped and hoisted his suitcase up above his head in order to place it onto one of the luggage racks at the end of the carriage. He had failed to see the young lady boarding behind him and accidently elbowed her straight in the chest. She gasped in horror, stumbling back somewhat as she clasped her chest in shock, she had been slightly winded and when opening her mouth to speak no words came out. Matthews dropped his suitcase to the floor and spun to see the ladies shaken face as she held her panting chest.

  ‘My sincere apo
logies madam, I did not see you behind me.’ His face was equally shocked as hers.

  ‘N… No harm done.’ She tried to smile through the pain and still gasping to breathe. ‘My own fault for rushing on so quickly.’

  The woman was approximately a foot shorter than Matthews; she had a deep purple floor length dress on and wore white lace gloves. Her blonde hair, which was tied up, peeked out beneath her large brimmed hat. She had blue eyes and was clearly younger than Matthews by a couple of years. She had a citrus scent to her and her small leather travel suitcase, which she had dropped in the commotion, looked equally expensive as her dress and hat.

  ‘I assure you the blame lies completely on me,’ Matthews replied. He swung his suitcase up onto the rack so as to clear a path for the woman. He then retrieved her bag from the floor and handed it back to her before standing aside and making a polite hand gesture encouraging her to go on ahead. ‘By the way,’ he said as she passed him, ‘I am PC Benjamin Matthews. I would like you to know I do not make it a habit to assault ladies on a regular occurrence.’ He held out his hand to her to shake and smiled, hoping she would know he was simply trying to humour his error. She smiled back and returned the hand shake.

  ‘I should hope not constable; it would not do you or your department much favour.’ Her smirk told him that she too was making humour out of the situation.

  ‘Are you headed to Whitby, Miss….erm?’

  ‘My name is Grace, Grace Clayson, and yes I live in Whitby with my fiancé. Good afternoon constable.’ She gave him another friendly smile and took a seat towards the middle of the carriage. As Matthews took a seat closer to the door the train began to pull away from the platform.