An Unhallowed Grave (2 page)

"Jo... Joanne Talbot. And Leanne... she was with me and all."

"Leanne Matherley," said the other girl, barely audible.

Merryweather addressed the assembled group, growing by the minute as more villagers, some sporting dressing gowns, left their houses to join in the excitement. "Does anyone know who the dead woman was?"

"Aye," said one of the drinkers. "It's her that works at the doctor's. She lives in Worthy Lane ... opposite them new holiday cottages."

It was with some relief that PC Merryweather's sharp ears picked up the approaching sound of a police car siren drifting through the night air. Reinforcements had arrived, with the police surgeon following close behind in his Range Rover.

He let them into the churchyard and resumed his crowd control duties, using his time and natural curiosity to find out what he could about the dead woman and whether anyone had noticed if she'd been depressed recently. Apart from the fact that her name was Pauline Brent, a nice enough woman who worked as receptionist for the local GP and kept herself to herself, he discovered very little. She had lived in the village for about fifteen years and was still regarded as a newcomer.

After a few minutes Merryweather felt a hand on his shoulder: the large hand of Sergeant Dowling from Neston police station who had arrived in the patrol car. "A word, Ian." Dowling drew the constable to one side away from curious village ears. "The doc's not happy. He thinks there's something not quite right so he's going to get the pathologist up here to have a look. Get the area taped off, will you. And take names and addresses ... just in case."

PC Ian Merryweather, glad that he'd not trampled all over the evidence, went about his duties with renewed enthusiasm.

Charles Stoke-Brown put the white carrier bag on the floor and fumbled for his key.

He picked the bag up, pushed at the studio door and flicked on the light, a bare bulb in the centre of the ceiling. Something was wrong. He was an artist, not a tidy man, but he knew that the mess in the long, low studio was not all of his making. Drawers had been opened; the mattress on the unmade double bed in the corner had been tipped over; paintings that had been piled against the walls now carpeted the bare wooden floor. A small window pane had been broken to enable the intruder to open the larger window and climb in. He had been burgled.

Charles ran to an open drawer and made a swift search. The photographs had gone. He could feel his face flush red: there was no need to mention them to the police. He began to pick up the canvases from the floor and pile them against the walls, thinking he'd better report the breakin, if only for the insurance. But as far as he could see, very little had been taken. He reached inside the carrier bag he was still holding and drew out a small, framed sketch ... at least they hadn't got that; it had been with him, safe.

He would tidy the studio and get the window mended in the morning, but at that moment he felt like walking. Walking to forget: to erase the evening's events from his mind. He would call the police later.

He grabbed the door key and went out again into the misty night air. There were police car sirens quite close. Or was it an ambulance?

He walked on, away from his home in the converted water mill at the far end of the village. Normally when he walked after midnight he had the place to himself, with only owls, screeching foxes and the occasional gaggle of drunk or drugged-up local teenagers to spoil the peace of the sleeping village. Or, more recently, those new people at Worthy Court, with their loud music and weekend parties. But tonight was different.

As he neared the church he spotted the small crowd of people, some seemingly in their nightclothes, standing by the lych gate deep in speculative conversation. Then he saw the police cars.

He turned, his heart pounding, and began to hurry back towards the mill, moths fluttering at his face, their ghostly wings illuminated by the full moon. A bat swooped from a tree, bringing him to a sudden halt.

Then, out of the bushes beside the narrow road, two shapes staggered towards him. They were young, about seventeen; one dark, one fair. Their faces bore the marks of acne and youthful bravado ... and something else. Wherever these boys' minds were, they weren't in a small village in South Devon on a warm June night. Their eyes were distant, hardly registering Charles. Drunk, thought Charles: the victims of a Friday night session on cans of strong lager behind the village hall, or... His worst suspicions were confirmed when the smaller of the pair collapsed on the road. The other looked at him, puzzled, with none of the unfocused bonhomie of the over indulgent drinker. He bent down to address his supine friend. "Hey, Lee ... there's a man ... he ain't got no face ..." The boy's speech was decidedly local and horribly slurred. The lad on the floor giggled but made no attempt to get up.

Charles moved forward, intending to sidle past.

"Don't go. Come and see the angel... in the trees..." The taller lad, his faded T-shirt covered in something unpleasant, approached Charles with outstretched arms. Charles took the opportunity to escape.

He walked swiftly off down the road, trying to put the encounter from his mind. He had come to Stokeworthy to avoid such things; to paint, to return to the simplicity and peace of country life. As a police patrol car flashed past, Charles flattened himself against the hedgerow. The last person Charles wanted to meet at that moment was a representative of the local police force.

Detective Inspector Gerry Heffernan was fast asleep when the telephone by his bed shattered the peace of the room. He always slept well on summer nights, when he could leave his window wide open to let in the sound of the water lapping against the quay side outside his front door. But the telephone meant that his sweet, nautical dreams were to be short-lived. He picked up the receiver and grunted a sleepy greeting, only to be informed by the offensively awake constable on the other end of the line that he was needed at Stokeworthy. Dr. Bowman, the pathologist, had been called, he was told in awed tones, and it might be a case of murder.

"Might be? Doesn't he know?" he asked, indignant.

"That's what he said, sir. Might be. He said to call you, sir," the constable added, apologetic.

"Murder," Heffernan muttered to himself as he pulled his trousers on. Then he picked up the phone and dialled. When Wesley Peterson answered, he could hear a crying baby in the background. "Sorry about this, Wcs. We're wanted. Suspected murder ... Stoke worthy."

As he waited for the sergeant to arrive, Heffernan gazed out of the window, watching the fishing boats, laden with lobster pots, chug down the River Trad towards the sea, and wondering what kind of murder had been committed in a nice quiet village like Stokeworthy.

John Fleecer is amerced because he forcibly deprived Robert the minstrel of his lute and beat his son. Fined 6d.

Thomas de Monte, the stone carver, doth mis order himself with knocking at the doors and windows of Ralph de Neston in the night and frightening them in their beds. The said Thomas did claim to the jury that he would speak with Ralph de Neston's daughter, Alice, to her father's displeasure. Fined 2d. From the Court Rolls of Stokeworthy Manor

"Sorry about this, Wcs," Heffernan said with some sincerity as he climbed into the passenger seat.

The young man at the wheel smiled. He was a good-looking man; his skin dark brown, his eyes warm and intelligent. "That's okay," he said. "Michael decided it was time for his feed anyway. He started to bawl just before the phone rang."

"That child must be psychic." Heffernan paused. "Murder. That's all we flaming well need with the tourist season upon us. You've not had the pleasure of a tourist season yet, have you, Wcs? It'll be a whole now experience for you."

Wesley stared ahead, concentrating on negotiating the narrow lanes. He had been transferred to Tradmouth from the Met the previous September, and the changes to the district brought about by the influx of summer visitors were, as yet, a mystery to him.

"What kind of place is Stokeworthy, sir? Don't think I've come across it yet."

"Just a village church, pub, council houses, cottages. A lot of weekend places and holiday lets, you know the sort of thing. And there's a manor house ... medieval, I'm told. It's near Knot Creek, a little inlet off the Trad. I've put in there a few times at high tide."

"You seem to know it well."

"Not really. Kathy used to like walking. We'd go all over the place in the old days. We walked from Stokeworthy church down through the woods to the creek once." The inspector's voice softened as it always did when he talked about his late wife, whom he had met by a happy quirk of fate when, as first officer of a cargo vessel, he'd been winched off his ship by helicopter suffering from appendicitis and taken to Tradmouth Hospital where he had fallen for Kathy, his nurse. After that he abandoned his native Liverpool and joined the force in Tradmouth. Kathy had died three years ago and Wesley, a perceptive man, knew that he missed her very much, although he never put his grief into words: that wasn't Heffernan's way.

"Is the manor house still lived in?" The mention of a medieval manor had caught Wesley's interest.

"Some rich businessman bought it, I believe. No doubt well in with the Chief Constable, so don't you go digging up the foundations."

Wesley smiled. He was used to his boss making quips at the expense of his archaeology degree.

"Anyway," Heffernan continued, 'this murder's probably a domestic. They usually are. Some man's come in from the pub and found his missus in the arms of the milkman ... or vice versa in these days of equality."

"Looks like we're here." Wesley, having followed the rural signposts carefully and avoided any unpleasant encounters with agricultural vehicles on the narrow, unlit lanes, felt rather pleased with himself as he swept past a sign that informed him that Stokeworthy welcomed careful drivers. He slowed down, looking for signs of life ... or death.

They reached the ancient church at the heart of the village, where a few feeble streetlights glimmered, making little difference to the inky darkness. Wesley slowed down almost to a halt when he spotted the flashing lights of two police patrol cars parked near a large group of curious villagers who were milling around the moonlit lych gate that led to the churchyard.

"Quite a crowd ... no doubt here for the free entertainment," said Wesley philosophically as he parked the car.

"Like a ruddy public hanging. They can't all be witnesses. Tell the local lads to take names and addresses and pack 'em off to bed, will you ... preferably their own."

Wesley got out of the car and showed his warrant card to PC Merryweather, who had been eyeing him with considerable suspicion. Heffernan remained in the passenger seat, weighing up the situation.

"I've taken names and addresses," said Merryweather with some indignation when Wesley passed on the inspector's orders. "And I was just going to get this lot off home. I suppose you'll want to talk to the girls who found her. They're over there with their mams."

"Fine. Thanks." Wesley attempted a smile, fearing that he'd already put at least one local back up.

Merryweather turned away. He had heard they'd got some black graduate whizz kid from the Met down at Tradmouth CID. He wondered how this paragon of modern policing got on with Gerry Heffernan: perhaps the blunt Scouser would be enough to send the whizz kid scurrying back to London where he belonged ... which might not be a bad thing.

When the crowd began to drift off to their beds, Heffernan emerged, bear-like, from the car. To Merry weather's disappointment he gave Wesley a friendly slap on the back. "Right, Wcs, where's this here body? Let's go and take a look, shall we?"

Wesley nodded. "It's near the church. Two girls found the body of a middle-aged woman hanging from a yew tree. She's been cut down now, so I'm told. The girls who found her are over there. Do you want to talk to them?"

Heffernan thought for a moment and looked at his watch. "Nah. Let 'em get home and get some beauty sleep. We'll have a word in the morning."

As Wesley arranged this, Heffernan passed under the lych gate and walked slowly up the path to the church. It was a long, winding path, flanked on either side by tombs of varying shapes and sizes: flat table tombs for the wealthy or pretentious; small headstones for the more humble in purse or spirit. The graves glowed in the light of the full moon, and wraiths of mist crept round them like the ghosts of the dead rising from their earthy beds. Not, Heffernan thought, a place for the nervous to be at night.

To the right of the path, over by the churchyard wall, was an area bathed in bright, artificial light. And, striding towards Heffernan across the grassy graves, a genial smile on his face, was a tall, balding man. "Gerry. Delighted to see you." Colin Bowman always insisted on getting the social niceties out of the way before getting down to his gruesome business. He spotted Wesley approaching up the church path. "Wesley. Good to see you. How's that baby of yours? Pamela well? Not too many sleepless nights, I hope."

"They're both fine, thanks. And a few years in CID is a good training for sleepless nights."

"What have we got in the way of dead bodies, then, Colin?" Heffernan steered the conversation towards death.

"Rather interesting, actually." Bowman led them over to the illuminated area. On the grass lay the body of a woman. In life she must have been reasonably attractive, although the manner of her death had distorted her face. She wasn't young, but neither was she old, and her hair, fair with no sign of grey, was cut in a smooth page-boy style. Her nails were short and neat and covered in clear lacquer. The lightweight white mac she wore didn't look cheap, nor did the navy sandals on her feet. This woman had looked after herself.

"She was found hanging from a branch of this old yew here. You can see the rope up there. The police surgeon got a constable to cut her down." The policemen looked up. A length of thick rope dangled from the tree. Colin Bowman continued. "Suicide was suspected at first, of course. There's a metal ladder propped up against the tree. I was talking to one of the churchwardens just before and he said that some work's just been done on the church porch ... that's where the ladder and rope came from. Very handy. She could easily have climbed the ladder, put the noose around her neck and jumped. Not a nice death. It takes a professional hangman to get a cleanly broken neck. Amateurs tend to choke to death: it can take a long time."