The Wych Elm
Although the quiet, peaceful village of Baron's Woods was far removed from the death, destruction and panic caused by the Blitz in London, the people still lived under the curse of war. Many villagers were off fighting for king and country, with some dying on foreign shores and being buried far from their homes and loved ones. Those who remained behind were faced with severe shortages and were required to buy food with ration stamps.
In every war, there are men who profit from the hardship of others. Even in a community as small as Baron's Woods, this was so. In fact, it had not just one, but three war profiteers. Perhaps this is too harsh a description to use since the goods being sold were not guns, ammunition or black market items. These "war profiteers" were three boys who routinely walked along the banks of rivers, ponds and streams, looking for duck eggs, which they would sell to local housewives. Rationing restricted people to one fresh egg per person per week or one package of powdered eggs per month, so cooks supplemented their meager allowance with duck and goose eggs when they were available.
One day, in the spring of 1942, Robin Overby, the oldest of these three lads, sought to expand his business empire by branching out into other varieties of eggs.
"Crow eggs may not taste as good as those from chickens, but they are probably suitable for baking purposes," he announced as though he were a bank chairman speaking to his board of directors.
"And where are we going to find crow eggs?" ten-year-old Archie Gedney asked.
"There's a large flock of crows in Boynton's Chase," the twelve-year-old leader answered.
Mention of the heavily wooded area at the northernmost part of the estate belonging to Cedric Boynton, Duke of Cumberland, sent a quiver of fear through his two friends and business partners. During the early days of Plantagenet rule, the chase had been a private hunting ground protected from poachers by armed gamekeepers. Despite the population of boar, stags and other wild animals having been decimated over the ensuing centuries, few people ever trespassed into the foreboding forest. Children often told tales of the chase being haunted, and parents taught their young ones to avoid it.
"You can't mean we're going into those woods to get crow eggs!" eight-year-old Jory Diggs, the youngest of the group, exclaimed with horror.
"Well, they aren't likely to come out here to us," Robin replied. "What's wrong with going into the chase, anyway? Don't tell me you believe all those stories about ghosts and wandering spirits."
The other two boys glanced at each other for moral support and then, in unison, firmly insisted they were not afraid of the woods.
"Good. Tonight, after it gets dark, we'll sneak into the chase and look for eggs."
"My parents will have a fit if they find out," Archie said.
"Then don't tell them."
That evening, after helping his sister clear away the dinner plates, Jory put on a light jacket and headed toward the door.
"And where are you headed to?" his mother called.
A clever child, he had already thought up an alibi.
"To Archie Gedney's house. We're going to plant a garden and grow vegetables to sell."
"Our boy has got the makings of a fine British shopkeeper," his father joked. "Someday the name Jory Diggs may be as famous in the retail world as Marks and Spencer."
The three boys met up on the village green just as the sun was beginning to set. Robin saw the trip into the woods as an adventure as well as a business opportunity, but his two friends viewed the outing with trepidation. It was a short walk to Boynton's Chase, taking less than fifteen minutes.
"I can't see where I'm walking," Jory complained once they entered the heavily wooded area where the trees shut out what little light was still available.
"Me either," Archie added. "I don't know why we couldn't come here during the day."
"And get caught trespassing?" Robin asked.
"These aren't the Middle Ages," Archie remarked sarcastically. "We aren't likely to get shot for poaching."
Robin took a box of matches from out of his pocket and lit the lantern he had smuggled out of the house.
"There!" he exclaimed as the flickering light cast a shadowy glow on the ground. "We can see now."
As the boys walked deeper into the woods, they heard the sounds of wildlife around them: the hooting of the owls that flew overhead searching for prey and the barking and occasional howling of the foxes.
Robin, who was leading the way with his lantern, suddenly stopped short.
"There it is!" he cried.
"There what is?" Archie asked. "A crow's nest?"
"No. It's the wych elm."
There was no need for further explanation. Every child in Baron's Woods, as well as their parents and grandparents, had heard the tales of the fabled tree.
"You think it's true that a pirate hid his booty deep inside the trunk?" Archie inquired, staring in awe at the towering elm.
"Or that a highwayman was hanged from one of its branches?" Jory asked.
"I heard it was a witch they strung up from the tree, not a highwayman," Robin said. "That makes sense since w-y-c-h is another spelling for witch."
The boys heard the sudden fluttering of wings above them as a bird flew away from the tree.
"Is that a falcon?" Jory asked, unable to clearly see the bird in the dark.
"It's probably an owl," Archie replied.
Robin, who had raised the lantern high above his head, caught a glimpse of the animal's black feathers.
"It's neither," he insisted. "It's a crow, and it's built a nest in the wych elm. I say we draw lots to see who climbs up to get the eggs."
The faces of the two younger boys looked deathly pale in the light of the lantern's glow. Although both were good tree climbers, neither wanted to ascend the branches of the notorious elm.
"What's the matter?" Robin teased them. "Are you scared?"
Normally, they would have been quick to attest to their bravery and defend their honor, but in the darkness of the eerie forest, the sinister tree seemed far too menacing.
"Aren't you?" Archie countered.
"No. It's just a tree."
"Then why don't you climb it?" Jory asked.
"Because I have to hold the lantern."
"I'll hold the lantern," Archie offered. "You climb the tree."
Robin's bravado began to falter. He was not nearly as courageous as he pretended. Archie saw his friend's indecision and struck at his weakness.
"I dare you!"
The gauntlet had been thrown, and if the challenge was not accepted, Robin would lose face and quite possibly his unofficial status as leader of the group.
"All right," he agreed. "Here, you take the lantern. Hold it as high as you can, so that I can see the branches."
He reached for one of the lowest limbs and pulled himself up. Branch by branch, he ascended the wych elm. As he climbed, he fought his fears by repeatedly telling himself that it was only a tree.
"There it is," he called down to the other two boys. "I can see the nest. It's just a few feet above my head."
Several minutes later the prize was within his grasp. As he leaned forward and stretched out his arm, however, he was distracted by a white object in the hollow trunk of the tree.
"What's ...?"
The question died on his lips when he realized he was looking down at a human skull.
* * *
At his wife's urging, Clive Diggs took his son aside for a heart-to-heart talk.
"Your mother is worried about you," he announced. "You're not eating right, and you've been very quiet lately. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Jory lied.
"You and I both know that's not true. Now, come on. Out with it."
The boy hesitated. He and his friends had made a pact never to tell about their recent nighttime adventure and what they discovered inside the wych elm.
"If you don't tell me what's wrong, your mother is only going to think you're sick. She's already suggested we take you to see Dr. Sperry."
"I don't need a doctor. There's nothing wrong with me."
"Is it Robin Overby? Has he been bullying you?"
"No. He's my friend."
"Then it must be a girl," Clive said, knowing full well his son was still at that age where he considered male/female relationships repulsive. "Is there someone in your class at school you have a crush on?"
"Eeew! No!" Jory exclaimed as though his father had suggested they dine on maggot stew.
"Then what is it?"
The eight-year-old finally caved under pressure.
"The other night, when I told you I was going to Archie Gedney's house, I ...."
He hesitated. Like a condemned man mounting the steps to the scaffold, he stopped, unwilling to go on.
"What happened then?" his father prompted.
"We—Archie, Robin and me—we went to Boynton's Chase to look for crow eggs."
"You know you're not allowed on the duke's property," Clive sternly reminded him. "And were you caught?"
"No."
"Then what's wrong?"
"Robin climbed the wych elm and saw ... and saw a head inside the trunk."
"A head?"
"The head of a dead person. I didn't see it myself, but Robin said there was nothing left but a skull."
"You boys found a human skull inside the wych elm?"
Jory nodded his head up and down in reply.
"And you didn't tell anyone?"
Now the boy's head moved from side to side.
"Someone has got to report this to the constabulary."
When Clive Diggs made the call, Constable Percy Melrose was sent to the scene. The young policeman climbed up the tree and tried to remove the skull but soon realized an entire body had been stuffed inside the hollow trunk. Unable to remove the skeleton himself, he called for assistance.
"It looks like there's something inside the mouth," he pointed out once he got a good look at the skull.
"Better not try to remove it," the older, more experienced Constable Neville Aynesworth warned. "You don't want to tamper with evidence."
"Evidence of what?"
"This poor soul might have been murdered."
"More than likely some practical joker put that skeleton in the tree for laughs. After all, this is the wych elm of Boynton's Chase. There are all kinds of bizarre legends attached to it."
"Just the same, lad, it's best to follow procedure. We'll send the remains to Dr. Fothergill over at the crime lab for examination."
* * *
"It's my professional opinion that we're dealing with a homicide," Dr. Fothergill announced after his examination of the body. "The victim was female, approximately forty to forty-five years of age. I estimate she's been dead approximately two years. The cause of death, I believe, was strangulation since the hyoid bone was fractured."
"I don't suppose there were any clues as to the poor woman's identity," Constable Aynesworth asked.
"She had no papers on her. No purse. Just this wedding ring," the doctor replied, holding up a simple gold band. "Unfortunately, there is no engraving on it."
"Dead about two years, you say? I'm sure if she were from Baron's Woods, someone would have reported her missing by now. She might have come from London, Manchester or some other large city, probably to escape the bombings."
"There are obviously no fingerprints," Dr. Fothergill continued, "but we might be able to identify her with dental records."
With so little forensic evidence to go on, discovering the unknown woman's killer would be akin to finding the proverbial needle in a haystack. Wartime conditions created further obstacles in the investigation. Due to the frequent bombing raids, the number of missing and displaced people was at an all-time high.
As is common in small communities like Baron's Woods, unsubstantiated rumors took the place of fact-based theories. The first such story was that the dead woman was murdered by her husband when he discovered her infidelity. This scenario was later altered to suggest that her married lover killed her when she threatened to tell his wife about their affair. The tales eventually became more fanciful and downright bizarre. The deceased was accused of being a Nazi spy, a member of a secret witch's coven and even a human sacrifice offered up by a bunch of Satan worshippers.
Although every effort was made to solve her murder, the case of the woman in the wych elm went cold, and the rumors stopped. Then, inexplicably, six months later, someone wrote in red paint on the door of the schoolhouse, "Who put Lizzy in the wych elm?"
The message rekindled people's interest in the murder, and the rumors began again.
* * *
When Cedric Boynton saw the message painted on the door of his carriage house, he was enraged. He had heard of a number of such messages popping up sporadically over the past several weeks, but this was the first time someone had dared vandalize his property.
"All this 'who put Lizzy in the wych elm' nonsense needs to come to an end!" he bellowed.
The duke felt his anger was justified. His was an old and respected family with a long and illustrious history. The first Duke of Cumberland had come over from Normandy and fought beside William the Conqueror at the Battle of Hastings. His descendants had helped create what Cedric believed was the greatest empire the world had ever known. One of his ancestors had gone into battle with Henry V against the French at Agincourt. Another was with Wellington at Waterloo. The family dutifully served their country both on the battlefield and in the House of Lords.
"And this is how they pay us back?" he cried, staring at the offending graffiti.
Constable Aynesworth, who had come as soon as the duke summoned him, tried to calm the old man down.
"I wouldn't take it personally, Your Grace. These messages have been popping up all over the village."
"And you've not found the culprit yet? What kind of police force have we got here? You're not being tasked with finding Jack the Ripper, just some delinquent with a brush and a can of red paint!"
"I assure you, we're doing our best, Your Grace."
"Well, obviously, your best isn't good enough. If I see another such message anywhere on my estate, I'm going to put in a call to Scotland Yard."
"Does that daft old man really think the Yard will send an inspector out to investigate a simple case of graffiti?" Constable Melrose laughed when Neville told him of his conversation with Cedric Boynton.
"He thinks his family name entitles him to special treatment."
"That's the rich for you! They're all a bunch of pompous asses, if you ask me."
"I admit I feel sorry for him sometimes."
"He's got more money than everyone in Baron's Woods combined, and he lives in an eight-hundred-year-old manor house the size of a castle. And you feel sorry for him!"
"I've got a wife, a son and two daughters. He's got no one. The duchess passed away five years ago, and his only child, his son and heir, was killed during the Battle of Verdun. And now his nephew, Drummond, the last of the Boyntons, is off fighting the Germans. If something should happen to him, the dukedom will become extinct."
"Who'll get the house, the land and the money?" Percy asked.
"It will probably revert to the crown," Neville replied.
"When you look at it that way, I can see why you'd feel sorry for the old bloke. He must be frightened out of his wits that his nephew won't make it home alive."
At the same time the two constables were discussing the plight of the Boyntons over a cup of tea, the duke was gazing up at the portraits of his ancestors that lined the long, second-floor hallway of Marbury Manor. It had recently become his habit to talk to them as though their painted ears could hear him.
"You had the right idea," he said to the Duke of Cumberland who had accompanied the Prince of Wales to France after his father, Charles I, was executed. "You backed the monarchy, not that rabble led by Oliver Cromwell. Lord Protector, indeed! He was a traitor, plain and simple."
Cedric took great pride in knowing his ancestor had been a cavalier and not a roundhead. To him, it was the obvious choice. It was when he recalled the dukes of the Tudor era that the lines separating what was right and wrong began to blur. In 1485, during the Battle of Bosworth Field, his ancestor had sided with Henry Tudor against the reigning king, Richard III, an act that would have been seen as high treason had Henry not been the victor and usurped Richard's throne.
It was during the reigns of the remaining Tudor monarchs that his ancestors were put to the test. Originally devout Catholics, they changed their faith when Henry VIII began the period known as the Reformation. They went back to Catholicism during the years Henry's daughter Mary sat on the throne, only to again embrace Protestantism under Elizabeth. Clearly, the Boyntons saw that their loyalty lay with the king (or queen), not with any particular religion.
At the farthest end of the hall was the duke's own portrait, painted when he was thirty-five years younger. The sight of it saddened him. When he sat for that portrait, he had a healthy son and every reason to believe his wife would give him more children.
"If you only knew what was ahead of you," he told his younger self.
"Excuse me, Your Grace," his butler called from the bottom of the stairs. "Your tea is served."
"I'll be right down, Eustace."
"Pardon me, Your Grace, but my name is Jasper. Eustace was your previous butler. He passed away almost fifteen years ago."
It was nothing more than a slip of the tongue, the duke told himself as he descended the staircase. Nothing to worry about. My mind is as clear as it ever was.
Mildred Hinshaw, the housekeeper, who had overheard her employer's gaffe, believed otherwise.
* * *
Having finished his tea, Cedric donned his Wellingtons and took his customary afternoon walk. As he leisurely strolled across paths once tread by his illustrious ancestors, he saw the village church in the distance and headed in that direction. Generations of Boyntons were resting peacefully in its graveyard. While gazing at the row of family plots, it suddenly occurred to him how few of them there were.
We have not been a very fruitful family, he brooded. It seems the Boynton men were too busy fighting England's battles to procreate. And now look where it's got us. My nephew is the only one left to carry on the family name.
The duke stopped and stood in front of the most recent grave.
"If only you had been stronger," he said, staring down at his wife's final resting place, "we might have had more children. Not that I don't deserve some of the blame for the current family crisis. By the time you were gone, there was no point in my remarrying since ill health prevented me from fathering more children. Now, it's all up to Drummond. He's got to come back alive, get married and have sons."
Although not a religious man, Cedric thought it might be helpful if he were to go inside St. George's and pray for his nephew's safe return. As he headed toward the church, however, he saw a familiar message scrawled on the brick wall surrounding the vicar's garden: "Who put Lizzy in the wych elm?"
The duke's scream brought the clergyman running out of his house.
"Are you all right, Your Grace?" the vicar asked, fearing the elderly man might be having a heart attack.
"It's those damned papists!" he shouted, his face contorted with rage. "First they try to blow up Parliament and now this!"
"Blow up Parliament? Oh, are you referring to the Gunpowder Plot?"
"Those Catholics. Catesby, Percy, Wintour and that devil Fawkes. I bet they're behind all this wych elm business."
"But, Your Grace, those men died more than two hundred years ago. They can't possibly have anything to do with the death of that unknown woman or with the graffiti on the wall."
However, there was no reasoning with the irate peer. His mind had journeyed back to a time when his ancestor's life had been in danger. Had the Gunpowder Plot been successful, the Earl of Cumberland would most likely have died along with King James and the other members of Parliament.
"Those papists are all out to get us. They won't stop until there's another Catholic monarch on the English throne."
The vicar was worried for the duke's sanity. Thankfully, Constable Aynesworth soon appeared and came to his aid.
"What seems to be the problem, Your Grace?"
"The papists are at it again. They've vandalized the vicar's garden wall this time."
"Papists, is it?"
"He's been going on about the Gunpowder Plot," the vicar whispered. "He seems to think it's 1605."
"Ah, well, you've nothing to worry about," Neville told the duke. "The plotters are all dead now."
"Even that bastard Guy Fawkes?"
"Oh, yes. Haven't you heard? He was found guilty of treason and, as such, was hanged and quartered. His body parts have since been sent to the four corners of the kingdom."
"Good!" Cedric cried. "It's a fitting punishment for the traitor. But Catholics are a wily bunch. Even now there might be another plot brewing. String them all up, I say!"
"Why don't we talk about this as we head back to Marbury Manor?" the constable suggested.
By the time they arrived at the duke's home, the old man had returned from the past. Yet the experience had taken its toll on him. He went upstairs to the master bedroom and, still wearing his muddy wellies and tweed suit, promptly fell asleep.
* * *
Although his duties did not include investigating homicides, Neville Aynesworth kept in contact with the chief inspector assigned to the case of the woman in the wych elm.
"Any luck in discovering her identity?" the constable asked when the two men met for lunch in a nearby pub.
"I've come up with nothing, I'm afraid," the discouraged detective answered. "I've gone through nearly a thousand missing persons reports and can't match any of them to the description of the body found in the tree trunk. Most are either too young or two old to be our murder victim. Others are too tall or too short. Only five women were of the right age and height. Three of those were eventually found alive and well in other parts of the kingdom, and the other two were ruled out with dental records."
"So, you're back to square one then?"
"Hell, I never even made it to square two. Even if we weren't in the midst of a war, I doubt we'd be able to solve this case. There are no suspects. We have no way of knowing who the woman was or what she looked like, so we aren't able to determine who her known associates are."
"I'm sure it's hard to find a killer when you haven't a clue as to the victim's identity."
"And what about you?" the chief inspector inquired. "Have you learned who has been leaving those messages around the village?"
"I'm afraid not. Whoever it is paints them at night when possible witnesses are asleep. We've got a man patrolling the village, but he's got a lot of ground to cover."
"Neither one of us is having any luck then."
"Do you think our paint-happy vandal might actually know something about the murder?" the constable asked as he sprinkled malt vinegar on his fish and chips.
"I'm not sure," the detective answered. "He might, but most likely he's nothing more than a prankster. Still, I don't want to rule out any possible leads at this point."
"Well, I'll be sure to keep an eye out for him then."
The following day, Constable Aynesworth stepped up his efforts to discover the identity of the person leaving the painted messages in the village. Believing the culprit might be a mischievous youngster rather that a witness to the murder, he decided to question the village children. Since they were often intimidated by law enforcement officers and the threat of punishment by their parents, they might cave under pressure and inform on the offender.
Despite the constable's stern demeanor and veiled threats, however, none of the local youths was forthcoming with useful information.
"I don't know who painted those messages," Jory Diggs declared, on the verge of tears. "Honest!"
"And what about you?" Neville asked his companions.
"It wasn't me. I swear it!" Archie Gedney answered.
"Me either," Robin Overby added.
His investigation, like the chief inspector's, was going nowhere.
* * *
As Neville and his family exited St. George's Church after the conclusion of Sunday services, the vicar requested a word with the constable. Meanwhile, Mrs. Aynesworth took the three children in tow and headed home.
"What is it?" the policeman asked.
"I was wondering if you've seen the duke in the past day or so."
"No. Why do you ask?"
"You haven't heard then? The duke's nephew, Drummond Boynton, was killed in battle."
"That must have upset the poor old man terribly."
"That's why I went to call on him at Marbury Manor," the vicar explained, "but neither the butler nor the housekeeper has seen him since he received the tragic news."
"Perhaps I ought to drive over there and see if he's returned."
"I'll go with you. We can take my car."
The constable questioned all the household staff, from the butler to the maids and from the cook to the gardener. No one had seen Cedric Boynton since the previous morning.
"I better go ask for volunteers to help search for him," Neville declared.
As the two men headed toward the vicar's car, the housekeeper returned from the village.
"May I have a moment of your time, Miss Hinshaw?" the constable asked.
"Is it the duke?" Mildred replied, anxiously wringing her hands. "Have you found him?"
"No. I'd just like to ask you some ...."
"Your hand, you've cut it," the vicar observed, interrupting the constable's question.
"It's nothing," the housekeeper insisted, quickly putting her hands in the pocket of her apron.
"There's blood on your fingers," Neville said. "What happened."
"It's not blood; it's red paint," she admitted. "I found one of those messages scribbled on the barn door this morning, and I took a knife and scraped it off before the duke could find it. You know how much they upset him."
Satisfied with the explanation and realizing the woman had no further information as to her employer's whereabouts, Neville returned to the village to organize a search party. More than fifty people—men, women and children—volunteered. The constable, the vicar and the housekeeper were all included with the group assigned to search Boynton's Chase.
This is where all the trouble started, Constable Aynesworth thought as he made his way through the dense woods. It all began when someone put Lizzy in the wych elm.
More than two hours later, they found the duke sitting on the ground with his back leaning against the tree in question.
"There you are!" the housekeeper exclaimed. "We've been looking all over for you, Your Grace."
"Pilgrimage of Grace!" he said with disgust, his mind back in 1536. "Why must those damned papists always stir things up? Why can't they do as the king commands?"
"Come on, Your Grace," Neville said, helping the old man to his feet. "Let's get you back to Marbury Manor."
"Why? It isn't safe there. Catholics coming to the door, and traitors under my very roof," he cried, glancing in Mildred Hinshaw's direction.
"What he needs is a doctor," the housekeeper announced, saying what was on everyone else's mind.
"Silence your tongue, you treacherous woman!" the duke shouted.
"Now, now, Your Grace," the vicar said in a soothing voice. "There's no need ...."
A sudden thought came to Constable Aynesworth's mind, and his brain tuned out the conversation around him. Mildred claimed to have gotten paint on her hands when she scratched the message off the barn door, yet the paint on her hand was wet, not dry.
"It was you," he cried, taking the others by surprise with his accusation. "You left the messages."
"I'll not keep quiet any longer," the housekeeper admitted with defiance. "Loyalty be damned! He killed her. Even if he is going senile, he shouldn't get away with murder."
All eyes turned to the duke who still believed he was living under the rule of Henry VIII, not George VI.
"Is this true, Your Grace?" the vicar asked with both horror and disbelief. "Did you kill that poor woman?"
"Poor woman?" he replied. "She was a no-good papist—a French one at that—who believed she could infiltrate my family and bring us down."
"I was there when she arrived," Mildred explained. "Her name wasn't Lizzy; it was Lisette—Lisette Boynton. She came here when her home in France was destroyed, foolishly believing the duke would take her in since she had been married to his son."
"That's a lie!" her employer roared. "No son of mine would ever marry a French papist!"
"She had a marriage license to prove it," the housekeeper continued. "The boy married her while he was stationed in France during the Great War, just weeks before he was killed at Verdun. When the duke heard her story, he flew into a rage. Nearly lost his mind, going on and on about Catholics and King Francis both being mortal enemies of England."
"And he killed her, right there in front of you?" the constable asked.
"No. After he had a chance to calm down, he took the poor woman—frightened half to death, I might add—to his car, claiming he knew of a place where she could stay. That was the last I saw of her. He never spoke of her again. And then, when those boys found the body in the wych elm, I knew immediately it had to be her."
"Then why didn't you tell the police what you knew?"
"I've been at Marbury Manor since I was a young girl. I served the duke and duchess faithfully for years. I knew he wasn't well. And what with his nephew's life in danger and there being no heir to inherit the title should Drummond die, I felt sorry for him."
"Then why the messages? Why not simply keep your mouth shut?"
"I felt sympathy for poor Lisette, too. And there was always the chance that another innocent person might be killed. I hoped the police would solve the murder and put the duke in a hospital where he would be taken care of. But months went by, and it seemed no progress at all was being made in the case. Furthermore, people seemed to be forgetting all about the body in the wych elm, so I decided to leave the messages to remind everyone that a murderer was still on the loose."
* * *
Two months after Cedric Boynton was admitted to a hospital for the care of people with mental conditions, Neville Aynesworth again had lunch with the chief inspector who had investigated Lisette Boynton's death.
"This will be my treat," the detective insisted. "It's the least I can do to thank you for solving the case."
"I can't take credit for that. I just happened to be there when Mildred Hinshaw finally spilled the beans. What I don't quite understand," the constable said as he cut into his steak and kidney pie, "is how such a frail old man was able to get a grown woman's body into that tree trunk."
"From what the psychiatrist tells me after his sessions with the duke, Boynton drove the woman to the chase and stopped the car near the wych elm. When she wasn't looking, he strangled her. He then slipped a rope around her neck, tossing the other end over one of the branches of the tree and securing it to the bumper of his car. As he drove the car forward, the woman was hoisted into the air. Once she was up there, he pushed her legs over the opening of the hollow trunk and lowered her body by again moving his car. Finally, once he untied the knot around her neck, she slid down where no one could see her."
"Given his state of mind, that was a rather ingenious way to dispose of the body."
"He may be sick in the head, but he's certainly not stupid," the chief inspector declared. "Considering what he's done, I don't suppose they'll ever let him out."
"Maybe it's for the best. Living in Marbury Manor, surrounded by so many artefacts from the past, would be a constant reminder of the imminent extinction of his lineage."
"True. And that reminds me. There's a bright side to the end of this story. The psychiatrist has managed to shake the duke's belief that he's living under the Tudors."
"Oh? How did he manage that?"
"By convincing him he's the Duke of Cumberland who was alive at the time of Queen Victoria. Now, rather than worrying about Catholic plots, he's excited about the opening of the Great Expedition."
"Given the state of the world we now live in," Constable Aynesworth concluded, "maybe we would all be better off if our minds could live in a happier place in time."
This story was inspired by the 1943 discovery of skeletal remains inside a wych elm in Hagley Wood, Worcestershire, England. The following year graffiti messages appeared, asking "Who put Bella in the Wych Elm?"
There's no need to ask who put Salem in the wych elm. He climbed up there himself.
