The Case Of The Bog Bodies by Robert F. Clifton (recommended ebook reader .TXT) 📕

Chapter One Rose Moss Bog

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Case Of The Bog Bodies

by

Robert F. Clifton

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Case Of The Bog Bodies

Copyright 2017 by Robert F. Clifton

All rights reserved. No part of this book

may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means without written

permission from the author.

 

 

Cover by Edward J. Clifton

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The reader is advised that this is a work of fiction.

Any similarity to names, places or events is purely

coincidental.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alistair Basham sat in his favorite chair in his study. He was reading a new book he had purchased on the subject of blood type as evidence in criminal cases when his

interest was interrupted by the ringing telephone. “Blast!,” he said aloud as he got up out of the chair and walked to his desk. Picking up the receiver he said, “Yes! What is it?”

“Alistair? This is Joyce. I need you to come up here,” she said.

“Up to Hesterton? What on earth for?,” he asked.

“I found bodies, two to be exact, but I fear there might be more,”she replied.

“Well Pet, seems to me that's what you went up there to find. Why in the world do you need me?”

“Because the bodies are not from the neolithic or Roman period. These are modern and they are the bodies of baby's. They appear to have been new born”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Table Of Contents

 

Chapter One......Rose Moss Bog

Chapter Two......Bog Bodies

Chapter Three...Seven

Chapter Four.....Blue Ribbon

Chapter Five......Evidence

Chapter Six........Manchester City

Chapter Seven...Sybil Morgan

Chapter Eight....Charles Fields

Chapter Nine.....Derbyshire

Chapter Ten.......Ainsworth House

Chapter Eleven..Profile

Afterword

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

Rose Moss Bog

 

Alistair Basham sat on a chair in the master bedroom of the house located at 1600 Hitman Road in Harrow, England. As he did he reluctantly watched his wife, Joyce as she packed a large suitcase with clothing she would need for her trip and her assignment. “I don't know why you are taking on this task love.

You are a paleontologist. This place you are going near Hesterton should hold no pre-historic fossils that you would be interested in finding,” said Basham.

“One never knows darling. What I do know is that the university that pays me and pays me well asked me to go to Rose Moss Bog. As a result I shall be going. Once there I will work with Alan Shaffer, He is the archeologist in charge of the dig. If I can be of assistance jolly good. If not, then so be it,” Joyce replied.

“But why go now? Summer is approaching. I thought we might spend a fortnight near the beach. Take in some sun,” Alistair added.

“The dig is now during the month of May. That means less rain”, Joyce responded.

“You will be working in a bog. What difference will a bit of rain make?”

“Actually none. I'll probably be working under a canopy.”

“And, where will you be staying in this town where munitions were once made,” he asked.

“A place called the Bridgeport Inn. Since you mentioned my stay you should also be aware that all of us will be taking the train to Hesterton. That leaves you with the motor car,” said Joyce.

“ Oh how nice considering the fact that I usually walk to the bus stop,” he replied.

“Well, that's up to you. Just remember to take the umbrella,” Joyce advised.

“Now be honest. What do you yourself expect to find in a place near Hesterton? The neolithic period goes back to ten thousand, two hundred years B.C. Your interest goes beyond that time,” he said.

“You my dear are a noted criminologist and I am the only paleontologist in this marriage. I will tell you that the first dinosaur fossil found in England occurred in the year sixteen seventy six. It was a thigh bone. It was thought at that time to be the thigh bone of a giant. It was later identified as coming from a Megalosaurus. Nonetheless, should I find evidence of a pre-historic civilization all well and good. If not then perhaps artifacts from the Romans or from a time when our forefathers painted themselves blue.”

“Very well. I should know better than to try to get you to change your mind once it's made up. Make sure that you take your sunscreen and mobile along with the charger,” Alistair advised.

“ And just what will you be doing while I'm away?”, asked Joyce.

“Well, with no class to teach during the summer I shall concentrate on my roses and vegetable garden. I thought that this year I might plant rutabagas,” Basham answered.

“And beets dear. Don't forget the beets,” Joyce added.

*************

At nine o'clock the next morning Alistair shook hands with Alan Shaffer who then took Joyce Basham's suitcase and loaded it into the dark blue Land Rover. “Good by love. Enjoy yourself in your work and don't forget to call,” said Basham as he hugged his wife and kissed her. He then stood at the curb of Hitman Road and watched the SUV drive out of sight. He then turned and looked at the two story, red brick house with its white painted window frames. Soon the small front lawn would need mowing and the shrubbery trimmed as well. It was his home. It was a place that had survived the German bombing of London and the surrounding communities such as Harrow during World War Two. He stood remembering the need to take shelter when the bombers came. He recalled the sounds of British anti-aircraft guns firing in the distance and the streaks of bright light that lit the night sky as search lights attempted to find Luftwaffe planes in the black night sky. The house had survived. He had survived. As a matter of fact he had survived two World Wars, having served in France during the first war. Now the house was also the home of his wife and her professional position was taking her away from him. Still, she had a right to work and enjoy her profession. She was entitled to work the dig. After all, she had spent years studying and working at sites all over the world. At the same time she never complained when he worked a criminal case as one of England's foremost criminologist.

He started to walk towards the front door. When he did he did so with a slight limp. The limp was a constant reminder of the wound he had received in France during the battle of the Somme. Now, in two months he would he would be sixty five years old. “Sixty five years old. I served in one war witnessed another and then this thing they called the “Korean conflict came along. It seems that most of my life has dealt with a war taking place in some place or another,” he thought to himself.

Entering the house to him it already felt empty. He missed Joyce immediately. Going at once to his study he picked up the file containing the papers related to an unsolved murder that took place in 1943. Four boys had been playing in the Hagely Woods, Worcestershire. After climbing a tree they discovered the remains of a woman stuffed inside a hollow Wych elm tree.

When the body was examined experts estimated that the woman had been about thirty five years old and had died as the result of asphyxiation when taffeta had been stuffed in her mouth. “Taffeta? It was estimated that the woman actually died in 1941.The war was still on in 1943. Most taffeta was being made in either China or India. I'm more than certain that no English fabric company was importing taffeta during that time. Therefore,

the taffeta had to come from a pre-war garment,” thought Basham.

Alistair continued to read and study the written reports from the case. One theory was that the skeleton remains were at the time that of a woman thought to have been a German spy. This woman was later identified as possibly being Clara Bauerle which could have been pronounced, Clarabella. Clara Bauerle

had been a cabaret singing in Germany. Her career suddenly ended in 1941. “ Merely co-incidental. Research into the background of the victim thought to be that of Clara Bauerle does not mention her marriage status. Since a gold wedding ring was found with the skeletal remain this cast doubt that the victim was Clara Bauerle,” Basham reasoned.

He continued to study what the police had provided as evidence. It wasn't much. Nonetheless he had solved other crimes with fewer clues to work a case. However, without going out to the original crime scene and questioning those who lived in the area at the time he was more or less handicapped when it came to a theory. He closed the file then looking at the clock on his study wall noticed that it was nearing Elevenses, that late morning work break most English took with a cup of tea along with a muffin, biscuit or scone. Alistair preferred what was termed, “Builders Tea”. It was brewed strong then mixed with milk and sugar. He walked into the kitchen. There he filled the copper kettle with water, placed it on the stove and turned on the gas burner. He turned slowly realizing just how empty the house felt to him. He wasn't use to being alone. Even before his marriage he had maintained a housekeeper. Marjorie Helm had kept his house for years,even through the blitz. He remembered the many times they huddled together in the cellar listening to the German bombs falling on London. He remembered the taste of her excellent Sheppard’s Pie. She was gone now, passed on. He visited her grave on special holidays. Now, Joyce was gone away on an archeological dig. “ Good for her. I hope she's successful. She enjoys her work. So do I. Yet, nothing is there for me at the moment. The police have not requested my services for some time now. Is it the lack of criminal cases or the lack of interest in me because of my age?,”he asked himself.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the whistling tea kettle and he turned back towards the stove. After preparing his tea he took a seat at the kitchen table. There, deep in thought and missing his wife he sipped the beverage and took occasional small bites of scone. When he was finished with his tea and scone he got up from the table and carried his cup to the kitchen sink.

Then returning to the table he gathered up a few crumbs and took them to the dust bin where he deposited them. “ So much for Elevenses. Hardly killed a half an hour. Supper will be worse. Maybe I'll dine out tonight. I've been fancying mutton for some time. Funny, Joyce prefers lamb over mutton. Oh well, to each their own as the saying goes,” he thought again.

Alistair turned at the sound of someone at the front door. He glanced at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall. “ Almost noon. It's probably the postman,” he thought. He listened carefully. Upon hearing the opening and closing of the postbox he began walking to the front of the house. By the time he got to the front door and opened it the postman had disappeared. Alistair open the postbox and removed a single envelope. He looked at it and saw that it was the electric bill from British Gas.

“Bloody robbers,charging us citizens with the high cost of gas and electricity. Where else can we buy energy? No where and they know it and take advantage of the fact,” he thought to himself.

Entering the house again he walked into his study. There he placed the bill on his desk. He never bothered with the payment of bills. At first, Mrs. Helms took responsibility for the payment of all household needs, electricity, gas and food. All Alistair did was either write checks or give her cash. That method continued with his marriage. There was one difference. Joyce now wrote the checks. “ She should be here right now