The Case Of The Berkshire Hog by Robert F. Clifton (ink book reader .TXT) 📕

Chapter One Basil morgan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Case Of The

Berkshire Hog

by

 

Robert F. Clifton

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Case Of The Berkshire Hog===

Copyright 2016 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 by the author.

 

 

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

similarity to persons, places and/or events is purely

coincidental.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Introduction

 

On the late, afternoon of Sunday, May, 16, 1926, Roger Fleming a potato farmer in Essex, near Chelmsford, England

heard someone knocking on his front door. He went and opened it. . He was found dead the next day by one of his workers.

The police were notified and after a brief investigation arrested Silas Mercer, a neighboring pig farmer. Mercer was

tried and convicted and later hanged for the crime.

Over the years the children of Silas Mercer fought to prove the innocence of their father. In a last attempt to do so they hired

Basil Morgan, a Barrister. Morgan, aware of the reputation of

Alistair Basham, Criminologist, contacts him about who really killed Roger Fleming.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Table Of Contents

 

Chapter One....Basil Morgan

Chapter Two....Sergeant Reginald Draper

Chapter Three..Harry Mercer

Chapter Four....Helen Bell

Chapter Five.....Chiny Chin Chin

Chapter Six.......Gunnister Man

Chapter Seven...Tinker Tailor

Chapter Eight....Henry Bascomb

Chapter Nine.....Barking To Dagenham

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

Basil Morgan

 

At approximately three thirty on the afternoon of Monday, April 2, 1951, Doctor Alistair Basham, PhD, carefully placed the notes he had used in his lecture into his briefcase. He had just finished his talk on Criminology to the students of the Sociology class at Essex University, Colchester campus. In his opinion the lecture had gone well with the students displaying an interest in what he had to say and he had noticed that they had taken copious notes. Now, in spite of the April rain falling outside Basham looked forward to motoring home to Harrow and a late supper with his wife, Joyce. He looked up at the sound of a voice.

“Are you Doctor Basham?”, asked a man of medium height and approximately forty five years old, attired in a gray suit.

“What’s left of me”, Basham answered.

“Doctor, I am Basil Morgan, Barrister. I represent Mr. Harry Mercer and his sister, Helen Bell.”

“Before you go any further sir, if there is a litigation against me I’m not aware of it nor have I been notified,” Alistair replied.

“No sir. You misunderstand. I’m here to solicit your help in a matter of an innocent man who was hanged for a murder he did not commit,” said Morgan.

“Did you represent him in court?” asked Basham.

“No sir. The crime happened twenty five years ago. I was still at university.”

“I see. Now then, why have you come to me?”

“I am aware sir of your reputation as a criminologist and your ability to find and create a criminal and personality profile. I am here, hoping you will help me in this matter. If your fee is reasonable I’m sure Mr. Mercer and his sister will gladly pay.”

“What you fail to realize Mr. Morgan is that I do not under any circumstances require a fee for my service. Usually, I enter a case at the invitation of law enforcement. As a matter of fact I have a somewhat, disdain for defense attorney’s.”

“Since you work with the police I can understand how you feel”, said Morgan.

“Can you now? I doubt that very much. Nonetheless, at the moment I’m looking forward to a long drive home and supper with my wife. I assume you have a business card. Give me a day or two to think over this matter and to check with my lecture schedule. If I decide to take an interest in your case I’ll contact you. If not, may I also advise you that there are other criminologist in and around London. Now, I must be going. It has been nice meeting you Mr. Morgan”, said Basham as the two men shook hands.

As he drove the wet, narrow roads from Colchester that led to London the windscreen wipers working constantly removed the gentle rain that fell. Alistair tried listening to the motorcar radio, but found the music being played distasteful, so he turned it off. After doing so he began remembering the brief conversation he had had with Basil Morgan. “ He seemed to be a nice sort of chap, particularly for someone being a barrister. Still, I must admit, I was a bit rude to the man. After all, the bloke did come to me asking for help. I should have behaved better. It was a good thing Joyce wasn’t about. If she had been I’d be getting what for, about now,” he thought to himself.

He glanced at his wristwatch seeing that it was four o’clock. “Tea time and here I am on this blasted, wet road. No tea for you Alistair Basham. Not now. Not until you get home”, he said aloud.

Alistair parked the motorcar in front of his house located at 1600 Hitman Road in Harrow, a suburb of London. He got out of the car, removed his briefcase from the front seat then locked the automobile door. As the rain was now falling harder he pulled the collar of his coat up to protect his neck then moved quickly to the front entrance of his home. He found the door locked. “Bloody Hell!”, he yelled as the rain pelted him. As he fumbled in his pocket for his keys the door suddenly opened.

“Oh? It’s you”, said Joyce Basham.

“You sound disappointed. Were you expecting someone else?”, asked Alistair.

“Not really. I should have known it was you at the door when I heard the cursing”, she replied.

“Just for the record I was getting soaked with the rain.”

“Well, you could have used your umbrella. Be careful not to get the hallway floor wet. Give me your hat and coat. I’ll hang them in the kitchen to dry.”

“Thank you”, said Basham as he stood on one foot removing a wet shoe.

“So? How was your lecture at Essex?,” asked Joyce.

“I think it went very well. At the same time it was nice to have been asked by Geoffrey Mason to lecture to his sociology class”, Alistair replied.

“Take a seat in the kitchen dear. Would you like a whiskey or sherry?”, she asked.

“Neither. I prefer a cup of hot, tea with honey. I jolly well know that being soaked as I am I will bloody well come down with a cold. I’ll start fighting it now.”

“I never saw anyone who is more of a hypochondriac then you. You got caught in the rain, yet you act like you went overboard from the Titanic. At the same time love, we are out of honey.”

“Naturally. What are you making for supper?”, he asked.

“Mutton Stew.”

“Really? Oh well.”

“You sound disappointed. What would his majesty prefer?”

“I prefer a beef stew.”

“Good, next time you make it.”

“I say. I had an unusual thing happen this day”, said Alistair.

“How unusual?”

“After my lecture a man representing himself as a barrister approached me. He requested me helping the children of a convicted killer who was hanged back in 1927.”

“And, what did you decide?”, asked Joyce.

“I actually haven’t had time to think about it. I told him that I usually work with the police and not attorney’s or words to that effect.”

“How did he react?”

“I assume he was disappointed. Nonetheless I did tell him that I would think it over. I have his card.”

“Well, that is entirely up to you love. Now, I suggest that you go upstairs. Get out of those damp clothes. Supper is almost ready.”

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

“Two days later Alistair Basham sat in the private office of

Basil Morgan, Barrister. “So Doctor Basham. I hope your visit here today is a sign that you are willing to help me in this legal matter,” said Morgan.

“Don’t get carried away with expectations young man. I will admit that I am curious. However, before making a decision, one way or the other I need to know more than what you have told me briefly when we first met.”

“I see. Where would you like me to begin?”

“At the beginning seems reasonable.”

“Of course. Well then we have to go back to the late afternoon of May 16, 1926. It was on a late Sunday afternoon that the police contend that Roger Fleming, who by the way lived alone, opened his door to someone and that someone killed him.”

“I see. How was the victim killed?”, asked Basham.

“He died as a result of several blows to the head, any which one could have crushed his skull.”

“Do the police have a motive?”

“They suggest that either it was a hate crime or possibly a robbery gone bad.”

“Tell me more about the victim.”

“Mr. Fleming was a farmer. His main crop was potato’s as it is today with most of the farms in that area. He was thirty seven years old, a bachelor, lived alone and was more or less a recluse living a solitary life. He had very few friends and as far as can be determined no enemies. He did however, have an on going feud with Silas Mercer.”

“Then I assume that Silas Mercer is the father of those you represent and at the same time the man that was hanged for Fleming’s murder.”

“That’s correct Doctor.”

“I see. Please continue.”

“What else would you like to know?”

“Tell me if you can what evidence the police ascertained.”

“First, after questioning neighbors the police then knowing that Fleming was more or less a recluse and one of his workers finding the front door ajar and his body, determined that Fleming had to have opened the front door which then allowed the killer to gain entrance.”

“Let me stop you there. Tell me if you can about the feud between Fleming and Mercer,” said Basham.

“The Mercer family own and operate a hog farm. They still raise the Berkshire Hog. Back then, the hogs belonging to Silas Mercer would occasionally get out of their pens and wander into Fleming’s fields. As you know the potato grows under the soil, but the green foliage grows above the soil. Evidently those green leafy stems were enticing to the swine and they quite naturally ate them. One must assume that once the green foliage is removed the potato stops growing. You can see why Fleming would be upset. Evidently this thing with the hogs was a continuum resulting in an on going feud.”

“Interesting, very interesting. Please continue.”

“As I understand the smell of pig manure drying in the sun is rather pungent. Evidently, when the wind was right the odor carried on the wind reached the home of Roger Fleming. This annoyed him as in all due respect it would annoy anyone subjected to the smell.”

“How many pigs did Mercer own at the time?,” asked Basham.

“I was told, approximately one thousand.”

“A thousand?”

“Yes and that’s another fact that adds to the equation. One thousand hogs can be managed by two workers. Fleming’s operation required five workers. At the same time Mercer was making more money than Fleming and Fleming resented the fact.”

“Of course, one chop would cost more than one potato.”

“Anyway, according to the police report, on Saturday, May 15, 1926 a prize breeding sow got out of its pen and walked into Fleming’s potato fields. Fleming seeing the hog eating his plants hopped on to his tractor with a loaded shotgun and drove to where the pig was eating and shot it dead. Mercer had gone into town to shop and when he returned was told about what had happened. Silas, then angered went to Fleming’s farm and home and banged on the door. If Fleming was at home he didn’t open the door or respond in anyway. Once again, according to the police the witnesses, who by the way were two of Flemings field hands stated that Mercer stood shaking his fist and shouted, “You’ll pay for this you no good, manky, bastard!”

“I see. Is there any evidence that he used the word, kill, or murder?”, asked Basham.

“No