An Unhallowed Grave (10 page)

She rolled her eyes to heaven. "I should have known. And I suppose you plan to give him a hand?"

Wesley opened his mouth to protest but Pam got in first. "It's always the same when Neil's around. As if police work wasn't bad enough."

She looked round at her husband, who stood by the pub entrance, crestfallen. "Don't worry, I won't spoil the evening. God knows I get out little enough these days," she said in martyred tones. Wesley didn't reply.

They found Neil installed in a corner opposite the bar with Matt and Jane. The Tradmouth Arms, dark and cosy with a nautical flavour and famed for its crab sandwiches, was a pleasant pub which stood in a commanding corner position in Tradmouth's older quarter, just next to Baynard's Quay, the small stretch of cobbled quay side with a small defensive castle at one end and Gerry Heffernan's whitewashed cottage at the other. In fact Heffernan and the Tradmouth Arms were virtually next-door neighbours. Wesley found himself watching the door, anticipating his boss's appearance.

The place was filling up, mostly with locals and members of the weekend yachting fraternity, some of whom were braying loudly by the bar. Neil stood up and gave Pam a kiss on the cheek. Matt and Jane raised a hand in greeting. Wesley, feeling more relaxed, bought a round of drinks, and when he returned from the bar he found Pam sitting next to Neil, listening intently as he spoke.

"Well, legend has it," Neil was saying, 'that a young woman was hanged on the yew in the churchyard; the same one that body was found hanging from last night."

"I never talk shop out of working hours," Wesley rebuked gently.

"I'm not talking your shop, Wcs, I'm talking my shop. I'm telling Pam about the site we're excavating."

"I thought it was a DMV, or a section of one."

"What's a DMV?" asked Pam.

"A deserted medieval village," Matt recited pedantically.

"Well," Neil continued, 'the section of the village that extended out that way was abandoned as the population shrank probably in 1348 with the Black Death then later the village expanded again elsewhere, further from the lord's lands. But there are some interesting tales about the site. They say that a young woman was hanged then buried at what was then the crossroads our site or thereabouts. That's why that yew's known to the locals as the hanging tree."

"When was this?"

Neil shrugged. "Could have been any time before the eighteenth century when the new drive was built. These old stories get lost in the mists of time."

At this point Wesley felt a hearty slap on his back. "Hi, Wcs. Mind if I join you?"

Gerry Heffernan beamed round the assembled company. "Hi, Pam. How are you? How's young Mike? Let you out for the evening, has he? Any room for a little one? Shift up, Wcs." The inspector inserted his bulk next to Wesley as Jane and Matt exchanged glances. "Now then, what's this about hanging trees? This lot withholding evidence, are they, Wcs?"

"Apparently, sir..."

"Oh, call me Gerry when we're off duty."

Wesley tried to suppress a smile. He began again. "Apparently there's a legend that a young woman was hanged on the old yew tree in the churchyard and that she's buried near the site of the dig."

"She might turn up, then. It'll make the Chief Constable think we're being kept busy if we get two bodies for the price of one." He nudged Wesley, who nearly spilled the beer he was raising to his lips. "What I want to know is ..." Heffernan paused. Then, seeing he had the group's full attention, he continued. "If this woman was hanged there must be some record of it. Is that right, Wcs? What was police paperwork like in those days?"

Neil sat up. "There might be court records ... if we knew where they were. The fact that she was condemned in a village and not in some assize court in a larger town indicates that it's very early ... possibly some medieval manorial court with additional powers. I'll see what I can find. Thanks for giving me the idea ... er, Gerry. Nice one."

Gerry Heffernan beamed all over his plump face. Wesley could tell that he was enjoying himself. He saw many more evenings ahead when the inspector would join them in the Tradmouth Arms, Neil's favoured watering-hole, and there would be no escape from reminders of the day's labours.

"And another thing," Heffernan continued, his enthusiasm fired. "What happened to that Jesse tree? It must be somewhere." He sat back, waiting for a reaction.

"What Jesse tree's this?" Jane, the attractive blonde, spoke for the first time, her voice soft and well bred. She leaned towards Gerry expectantly.

"It will have been smashed to pieces during the Reformation," Wesley said, pouring cold water on the proceedings. "Not many carvings from that period have survived, believe me."

Heffernan looked disappointed, like a child who had just been deprived of a newly given toy. "Oh well, Wcs. You're the expert," he said, draining his glass. "If you're getting the drinks in, mine's a pint."

There was an hour to go until closing time. Lee hung about the side entrance to the public bar of the Ring o' Bells, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. Gaz had gone in to get some lager to take out; of the two of them he was reckoned to look the older. Lee needed the drink, even though he had downed four pints already. The stuff he had taken last night had left him thirsty, restless. He kept seeing things, flashing back to the previous night; seeing the body hanging from the tree, the flat in the old mill they had broken into in a fit of chemically induced bravado. He felt lousy. The lager might, just might, make him feel better.

Gaz was taking a long time. Too long. Lee could hear footsteps approaching on the gravel path that ran down the side of the pub to the beer garden at the back: the beer garden that was always filled with bloody tourists and their screaming kids during the summer months. But not tonight. It was too early in the season, and there was a chill in the air that didn't encourage outdoor drinking. Lee was alone. Then the footsteps crunching on the gravel drew nearer. Lee turned round.

"You," he gasped. Pictures flashed in his mind, pictures from the previous night. For the first time Lee was beginning to make sense of their significance. "Last night... you were there ..."

When Gaz emerged from the door of the public bar five minutes later carrying a six-pack of Continental lager, there was no sign of Lee. Gaz called his name a few times but received no answer. There was no one about; no one to ask if they'd seen his mate. For the want of anything better to do, Gaz made his way home, drank a can of lager by himself in his bedroom, and hid the rest of the cans under his bed: they would do for another day.

That night Gaz found it hard to get off to sleep. When he did finally drop off he had a vivid, horrifying dream. In this dream he saw Lee, hanging from the yew tree in the churchyard, a rope around his neck.

Felicia de Monte accuses Elizabeth Webster for dallying with charms and sorceries contrary to good faith and calling herself a wise woman. Felicia de Monte states that the said Elizabeth Webster did cause her babe to fall sick and die with a spell.

John Fleecer did break and enter the dwelling house of Matthew Watts and did steal a candlestick. Fined 5s and Master Fleecer, the blacksmith, doth give surety for his son's good behaviour.

From the Court Rolls of Stokeworthy Manor

Pamela Peterson sat in the uncomfortable oak pew in St. Margaret's church cradling Michael in her arms and hoping he wouldn't cry. It was all right for Wesley: church had been part of his upbringing, of his family's life. But Pam's mother, a strong-minded sociology lecturer, hadn't believed in organised religion, although she had had a brief flirtation with Buddhism some years back. Pam listened to the service and attempted self-consciously to mouth the unfamiliar hymns; whereas her husband, standing next to her, seemed completely at home. She tried to peer through the richly carved and painted rood screen to see Gerry Heffernan, but he was just out of her line of vision. She had to admit that the choir was quite good, and she found herself positively enjoying the Rutter anthem which they sang with remarkable panache.

As she walked out of the cool stone church, she felt relieved that it was over and that Michael had stayed obligingly asleep. The real ordeal would come in a few weeks' time: the christening service with Wesley's family there en masse.

Gerry Heffernan, minus his surplice, met them outside. As Pam put Michael in the pram she'd left in the church porch, he drew Wesley to one side. Pam knew that murder didn't stick to office hours, but she felt a stab of resentment that work would take her husband away from home on a beautiful June Sunday. She thought of the places they could have gone: a picnic would have been nice. But there was no point making plans when you were married to a policeman.

As his wife pushed the pram up the hilly streets to their modern detached home above the town, Wesley drove his boss to Stokeworthy, where they looked in at the incident room. Rachel had got there an hour or so before them and was sifting through statements. Gerry Heffernan tried to sneak past, but Rachel wasn't going to let him get away that easily.

"Sir, I've just been going through these house-to-house statements. Nobody saw anything that night. They were all either tucked up at home or in the Ring o' Bells till closing time. It seems the murderer knew that the village would be quiet around ten thirty."

"Local knowledge, then. Anything else?"

"Lots of people seemed to know her ... not well, but enough to pass the time of day. Nobody's said a bad word about her. It seems she was well liked. She's usually described as a nice woman who always had a word for the kiddies, that sort of thing."

"So she wasn't the traditional doctor's receptionist ... the dragon at the gates of the quack's lair?"

"Apparently not. She used to make a special effort with the kids. And everyone said she took part in village activities but wasn't regarded as a busybody. She seemed a nice woman."

"So why didn't she marry?"

Rachel shot him a look, bristling with anger. "Women these days don't have to be tied to a man to justify their existence ..."

Wesley, seeing Rachel's feminist hackles rising, stepped in to calm the situation. "I think what the boss means is that she didn't have a high-flying career; she lived in a village; she appeared to like children. To me she seemed like the marrying kind."

"Maybe she never found anyone suitable or the love of her life left her," said Rachel, calming down. "There was some mention of a boyfriend." She began to search through the pile of statements. "Here we are. The statement from her cleaning lady, a Mrs. Dot

Matherley. Remember, Wesley, we found a note from her in Pauline's cottage?"

"Leanne's mum?"

"Gran, more likely. She's over sixty but she cleans for quite a few people in the village ... even up at the Manor. Anyway, this Mrs. Matherley thinks Pauline had a boyfriend although she couldn't say who. It was all kept very low key, she said. Discreet."

"Could it have been this Matherley woman's imagination ... or wishful thinking?"

"Possibly. She seemed to think very highly of Miss Brent. But I suppose the man could have been married or had a good reason for keeping the relationship secret."

"Did she say anything else interesting?"

Rachel scanned the statement and shook her head. "No. Nothing in particular."

"So why did this nice popular woman, friend to little kiddies, leader of a blameless life, get herself murdered, eh?" Gerry Heffernan asked rhetorically. "Come on, Wesley. I think it's about time you and me paid a visit to the Manor. Do you still have to pull your forelock when you meet his lordship?"

"I wouldn't, sir," grinned Wesley. "Just be polite and mind your p's and q's."

"I think I can manage that."

Wesley looked sceptical. They left the village hall only to find Steve Carstairs, complete with sunglasses and what looked like an Armani suit over a snowy white T-shirt, leaning casually against his Escort XR31 chatting up the two girls who had found the body. They seemed to be hanging on Steve's every word, and the body language told Wesley that if Steve didn't watch himself they would get him into hot water.

The inspector saw what was going on and shouted over. "Steve, put 'em down and get on with some flamin' work, will you."

Steve jumped to it and disappeared into the village hall, leaving his fan club gazing adoringly at his disappearing back.

"I'll have a word if it gets out of hand," Heffernan assured Wesley as they set off down the road.

They had to pass the dig on the way to the Manor and Wesley couldn't resist a quick look, just to see how things were going. To his surprise it was Gerry Heffernan who took the lead, striding confidently between the trenches towards Neil, who was bent double, deep in concentration, scraping away with his trowel.

"Hello, Neil," he called, causing the students busy in the other trenches to look up. "How's it going, mate?"

"Hi, Gerry. No villains to catch today, or don't they work on Sundays?"

"Our villains are very industrious. They work every day. Is Mr. Thewlis in, do you know?"

"I think so, but he doesn't tell me all his movements," replied Neil.

"Found anything yet?"

Neil straightened himself up and thrust a plastic box full of finds, mainly broken pottery and a few animal bones, at Wesley. "That's all so far, but there's a bloody great geophysics signal from this trench ... just a matter of digging down a bit deeper."

"You might find that Roman villa yet."

"We can but dream." Neil laughed mischievously. "But I don't think there's much chance."

"Pity," said Wesley with sympathy. "What's Thewlis like?"

"Mid-forties. Sharp. He's chairman of Thewall Holdings. They've got a finger in every lucrative pie: retail; property. I've heard talk he's about to take charge of some government quango ... and there are rumours of a seat in the Lords and all."