Larksley County of the United Kingdom
is a peaceful, rural territory that is a good day and a half marching out of
London. There is a large road running
north by south, with York another long bit of travel from here. The region is dominated by farms, undergrowth
and scrub, and some seven villages, only one of which, Gulliton, is a harbor
village looking out over the North Sea, flanked by impressive cliffs.
The lay of the land is hilly, with
cut roads connecting each of the villages.
News travels, but the hilly condition of the territory makes it an
athlete’s workout to run from one village to the other, making sure that each
village focuses first on its own problems and only secondarily on the bigger
threats. When the Sun shines in the
county, there is glowing green everywhere, but more often the county is rainy,
as it is in much of Britain, but here it can become a deeper, duller grey.
Extract from Henfield’s Guide to the Counties, published 1862
To the Chief Inspector, Alexander Dennis
Knox
I write to you, Chief Inspector, with
two requests. One I think that you shall
find modest, which I make on behalf of the villagers and common folk of
Larksley County. I ask you to request
the Queen’s Rangers for assistance in tracking wolves, and the details of the
request follow. The other is my own personal request, which I make because
Chief Inspector, I fear that there is more here than wolves. All of the dangers seem to surround the Manor
of Baron Larksley, and so I digress and beg permission to repeat that which you
know, but which may be necessary to know the nature of my fears.
The Baron of Larksley’s house has been
in decline for decades, but friends of the peerage would still sometimes call
at his ancient manor house in the center of the county. Most of his servants live on the premises and
kept the house in order by running errands out to the villages. A delivery of fresh milk to the Baron’s door was
contracted, and the milkman ever found the empty bottles waiting for him the
next day. Servants fetched the
newspapers, shopped at the butchers in town, and collected special ordered cakes
and pastries for special events. These
are the good times, and all held Larksley Manor a godly place and the master a
good man.
Recently all of these things have
been missed.
No one has seen or had news of the
Baron, or his in-house servants, since last Easter at least. Guests and workman with business with the
Baron have reported a terrible smell of rot in the air, and most, with the
luxury of time at least, have left the scene untampered. The milkman, better exposed to foul air, reports
likewise approaching the door and finding the empty bottles smashed. When he called at the door, he received no
reply, and the invoice he left with the mail has been left, with the mail,
accumulating through the weeks. The
postman has so far had no need to collect, but likewise reports the scene
worrisome.
Even his friends in the peerage
outside the county have come calling, but each reports getting no nearer the
door than 100 paces before stumbling back for air, so terrible is the scent. The Duke of Cornwall was last, and after
beating a hasty retreat from his old friend’s, stayed in Fullerton for the
night while sending servants to inquire at latter hours. Finding no one home, he thought it odd, but
recalled some long forgotten youthful escapade where Baron Larksley would be out
for a week and left no forwarding address.
The Duke could not stay in Larksley forever, for as you know his
services are ever in demand. He left
instructions for a 120 shilling prize to be paid to the first man with news of
the Baron’s whereabouts. That prize is
still unclaimed.
I mentioned the stench, and I mention
now that we in the boroughs are assaulted by the odor every time the wind shifts
towards us. Our only and best relief is
when the wind should shift again, moving the rankness to the noses of our
neighbors, a most ungodly relief indeed.
Over these three weeks the entire county reports smelling the scent, and
bemoaning terribly the rottenness of it all.
I write now confessions and news that
may be seen as more conjecture than true fact, but there is a terrible
queerness in the county these days, or rather, these nights. When good folk sleep these past four nights,
some small and loudly cursing character is heard to be droving a carriage. The second night he was reported by passersby
on the roads who say the coach is dressed as a hearse. It is all well and good for an undertaker to
ply his trade at night, but why pray should he venture up the hill to Baron
Larksley’s manor night after night? I,
having had the report of his passing up by midnight and catching him on his
return journey in the early morn. Both I
and others of the county constabulary have cornered him for inquiry, but he
reports only that he works his master’s work and to address questions to the
Baron himself, which he should say if only the Baron answered such questions. Against his loud and profane protests, I
search his hearse, but I regret the findings are more strange yet. He was carrying empty coffins, down from the
mansion. Why should he do so, except by
the Baron’s orders, and then, why should the Baron order it? The whole county whispers of what transpires
up there, but I don’t trust this creature or his papers from the Baron.
But that is not yet the whole of
it. Indeed, dear sir, I must proceed to ask
you to forward a serious request to the Queen’s rangers. Traveller’s bodies have been found by the
roads, mangled and mauled. Each of the villages
dismiss this as queerness, stating with doubtlessness that the culprits are
wolves, long absent from the county’s borders.
While none like the prospect of wolves roaming the county, I find the
lack of farm stock killings peculiar. I
have chosen not to disclose such doubts to the villagers, lest they prove too
true for comfort. In any case, please
relay my request for the Queen’s own to take up this cause, so that expertise
and not doubt shall rule the day.
Indeed, with such queer things
happening, I have no doubt at all that it is safe for no one to travel at
night, and have issued peculiar instructions of my own, notably that constables
under my watch serve armed. As is
customary they should keep their arms hidden from the general populace at all
times, and use them only under duress, but I would rather know some man out
there can chase off wolves, or worse, before great harm is done.
But that brings us back to the crux
of the problem, doesn’t it? Great harm
could have already befallen the Baron, and the odious man who would be his nocturnal
servant could be carting his master’s body, or his guests and servants, to some
secret burial each of these past four nights.
Such an undertaking would be large indeed, but his excuse, and
travelling papers signed by the Baron himself, keeps us from molesting him
unwarrantedly. More to the point, there
could still be evidence up in the manor now, should we act now to seize it.
I do not know what I ask of you,
Chief Inspector, but this. Let us
assemble and prepare an expedition. Our
constabulary has not many resources, but we could turn out each uniformed man
in the county should it come down to it.
Let us arm and supply them for the worst, then send them to the door
expecting the best. Let them knock, and
demand an answer, more than milkmen and postmen could. If a resident or servant answers, let us ask
what is happening up there, and more importantly, to speak with the Baron
himself and confirm his wellbeing.
If there is no answer, let us force
the issue. I have no more taste than you
for home invasion, least of all a Peer’s, but we have let propriety shackle us when
there is good cause to say that evil is afoot!
At the least, if we could but obtain a fellow Peer’s letter containing
his concern for his friend. I know well
what that is asking of you chief inspector, but by God’s grace, there must be a
way to get it done.
I leave all of this to you Chief
Inspector, and shall take no further action without your approval.
For the Queen
P.C. Horace Starling
Larksley County Constabulary
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