An Unhallowed Grave (4 page)

Charles Stoke-Brown walked back to the mill, trying to look inconspicuous. The place was swarming with police. The young constable who had called on him that morning to investigate his breakin had mentioned nothing: whether this was from ignorance or discretion, Charles didn't know.

During his short visit to the village shop he had picked up more than a pint of semi-skimmed. The shop was the nerve centre of Stokeworthy's communications network. It had taken him all of five minutes to learn that Pauline had been found dead in the churchyard, the victim of some bizarre satanic ritual the details of which were too horrifying for even Mrs. Weekes from the council bungalows to broadcast. The older villagers of Stokeworthy never let the facts get in the way of a good story.

Charles, of course, had not been asked to contribute to the conversation, being a newcomer. But he had taken it all in, every spicy detail. The police presence was at its most noticeable near the church. Scenes-of-crime officers in white overalls were crawling over the ground among the tombs like giant white maggots seeking out the dead. He suppressed a shudder and hurried on, hoping he could escape the notice of the law by returning quietly to his studio.

Something made him take the long route back, past Pauline's cottage. There was a police car parked outside, which was only to be expected, but no other signs of activity.

When he arrived back at the studio, still feeling that what he had witnessed in the village was somewhat unreal, he let himself in with his key. He had hoped that Stokeworthy would be the kind of place where you could leave doors unlocked, but the locals had put him right on this point when he'd first arrived: the smug, secret smiles over pints of best bitter in the Ring o' Bells mocking his naivete.

As he shut the door behind him, blocking out the outside world, he recalled the previous night's encounter with the two youths. They'd spoken of an angel presumably Pauline in her white mac flying from the yew tree. But would they describe Pauline as an angel? Maybe. He had thought so himself once. He bent down and picked up a canvas from the back of a pile of pictures propped up against the wall. He stroked the image, his hands feeling the texture of the oil paint, and considered what his next move should be.

Julian D'estry's Mercedes wasn't parked in the central courtyard. And there was no answer to Wesley's persistent ringing on his highly polished brass doorbell. He was out.

"Shall we see who else lives here?" he suggested to Rachel, who stood beside him, deep in thought.

"Nobody actually lives here, Wcs. They stay here for weekends or holidays. They live somewhere else." Their eyes met and she smiled.

"You don't approve?"

"No. They should be building places local people can afford."

Wesley nodded. He had heard the arguments before from his wife, bemoaning the death of villages as the families and young people moved out and the wealthy weekenders moved in. As Pam, his wife, was a teacher with a vested interest in the health of the district's village primary schools, she was particularly passionate in the defence of 'proper village life' as she saw it. Wesley, born and bred in a well-heeled London suburb and educated in a private school sheltered from the winds of demographic change, felt unqualified to judge but his instincts told him that Pam and Rachel had a point.

He rephrased his question. "Shall we see if anyone else is here?"

The cottages were arranged around three sides of the square courtyard, accessed by an archway leading from the road. The accommodation seemed to consist of traditional thatched cottages, tastefully washed in pastel shades of blue, pink and cream. The far range opposite the archway was, in startling contrast, a modern wall of gleaming glass through which could be seen an indoor swimming pool and, on the floor above the pool, a gym filled with equipment that looked suitable for a latter-day inquisition. They knocked on several doors before one was opened.

The first thing Wesley noticed about the woman who answered the door of number seven was her hair. Long and auburn, gently waving almost down to her waist, the sort of hair immortalised in pre-Raphaelite paintings. The face matched the hair beautiful, the lips full and sensuous. She was probably in her mid thirties, her build tall and athletic: Rachel assumed she made use of the gym facilities above the pool. A small girl clung to the woman's skirt and an older boy, aged about seven, stood behind, watchful. She looked almost defiant when Wesley showed his warrant card.

"If you've come about last night, I really wouldn't believe a word he says. You'd better come in." Her voice was well bred -dead posh, Gerry Heffernan would have called it. She introduced herself as Jane Wills and led them into the living room, which was a luxurious pastiche of a country cottage; some fashionable London designer's idea of what bucolic living should be ... with all modern conveniences. A glass display cabinet full of fossils stood in the corner looking strangely out of place.

"Now, Mrs. Wills," said Wesley, formally. "Can you tell me in your own words what happened last night?" He might as well get things clear from the start.

The children sat on either side of their mother, staring at Wesley with solemn fascination.

"I suppose he's made a complaint."

"Who, madam?"

"That vulgar little man, D'estry. Who else?"

"It might help if you started from the beginning." Wesley glanced at Rachel, who looked as puzzled as he felt.

Jane Wills took a deep breath. "It's been going on for months, ever since D'estry and that woman bought number three. They come down here most weekends ... for the water sports, I believe," she said with distaste. "They play loud music, have friends down for parties in the pool. We bought this place because we thought it would be quiet... select. Last night was just the last straw. They were playing that awful music at full blast after midnight. The children had gone to bed and we were playing a game and having a quiet drink. Then this noise started and we couldn't hear ourselves think. The couple in number ten, Mr. and Mrs. Bentley, knocked on our door. They were furious. Mrs. Bentley's a formidable lady ... a former magistrate, I believe. They asked if we'd go over with them to complain, so I went with my father-in-law, who has the cottage next door. We went over to the pool and the noise was echoing in there; it was deafening. Mrs. Bentley picked up his portable hi-fi and threw it in the water. We'd all had enough. And do you know what that pair were wearing?" She looked at Wesley defiantly. "Nothing."

Wesley tried hard not to smile. "What time was this?"

"About twenty past midnight."

"So what happened then?"

"Nothing. I think D'estry and his girlfriend were too shocked to do anything," she said with satisfaction. "Mrs. Bentley might be getting on in years but she's more than capable of sorting out the likes of D'estry. So what did D'estry say? I can imagine him playing the injured party. Did you know he threatened some of the local people who've complained about his behaviour? That's the kind of man ..."

Wesley didn't give her the chance to finish her sentence. It was time to broach matters more serious than noisy nude bathing. "Have you heard that there's been a suspicious death in the village?" He suddenly remembered the children, sitting in solemn silence on either side of their mother. There was something subdued, almost Victorian, about these youngsters. Wesley was sure that, despite a strict upbringing, he and his sister would have preferred getting up to mischief to sitting seriously listening to the questions of a stranger. "Perhaps you'd rather the children didn't, er..."

"We don't believe in shielding our children from the unpleasantness of life, Sergeant. I've seen police cars around, of course, but I don't know what was going on."

"A woman was found dead in the churchyard last night. She lived in the middle cottage on the other side of the road, just opposite here. Her name was Pauline Brent. Did you know her?"

Jane Wills shook her auburn curls, avoiding Wesley's eyes.

"The threats Mr. D'estry is alleged to have made: do you know if it was Miss Brent he threatened?"

"I couldn't say. It was common knowledge he'd threatened somebody in the village. I didn't know the details."

"Did you see anything suspicious last night? Or did you see a middle-aged, fair-haired woman in a white mac at any time during the evening?"

"No, Sergeant. We arrived for the weekend just after six o'clock. My husband went out to a function in Bloxham and didn't get back till after midnight, but the rest of us that's my parents-in-law, the children and myself spent the evening together," she said with finality.

There was nothing more to be discovered. Wesley stood up, and Rachel, in complete agreement, did the same. As Jane Wills showed them to the front door, leaving her two silent children on the sofa, Rachel turned and caught a glimpse of an elderly woman watching them intently from the top of the polished wooden staircase.

There was no reply from the other residents of Worthy Court: either the cottages were as yet unsold or their weekend occupants were elsewhere on a sunny Saturday morning. Wesley would organise someone to call round and take statements later.

He felt in his jacket pocket for the spare key to Pauline Brent's cottage, given them by Susan Green.

"I think it's time we looked through her things."

Rachel nodded. They walked across the road in amicable silence, and Wesley turned the key in the lock. The hallway smelled of potpourri; watercolours of local scenes decorated the walls. Wesley stepped into the low-beamed living room. The furnishings and decor were solid, un excitingly beige. Pauline had lacked Mrs. Green's flair for interior design.

They agreed that Rachel should look upstairs while Wesley dealt with the lower floor. He was looking through the contents of a dark wooden letter rack when he heard Rachel's footsteps on the stairs. She appeared in the doorway and shook her head. "Nothing much up there. Only clothes, make-up. Have you found anything interesting?"

"Nothing much," he said, looking around. "The only letters she seemed to get were official ones: electric bills, water bills, unremarkable bank statements. Nothing personal at all, from what I can see." He produced a cheap piece of writing paper. "There's a note here from a Dot Matherley to say could she come on Wednesday instead of Tuesday. Who is she, I wonder? Friend? Cleaner? That's all. No love letters upstairs, then?"

"Nothing."

"She doesn't seem to have a telephone."

Rachel looked around. "You're right. That's a bit odd in this day and age, especially out in the country."

"Perhaps she doesn't know anyone outside the village."

Rachel shrugged. "No car either. I wouldn't like to have to rely on the buses round here. Her clothes were quite good. She seemed to favour Marks and Spencer's." Rachel paused, thinking. "Have you found a passport, birth certificate, anything like that?"

"No. She might have hidden them away somewhere. We'll have to organise a thorough search."

"Where to now, Sarge?"

"I've got to get back to Tradmouth for the postmortem."

"Rather you than me. Good luck." She gave his arm a gentle, encouraging touch as they shut the front door of Pauline Brent's empty cottage behind them. "You can give me a lift to the station, then."

Rachel and Wesley drove down Worthy Lane, out of the village.

"Nice place," Wesley commented, making conversation. Rachel didn't reply. "How's Dave? Where's he living now?" Rachel's Australian boyfriend had recently moved out of the holiday apartment on her family's farm, where he had been allowed to spend the winter. The apartment was needed now for the holiday-makers who added more to the Tracey family's bank account during the summer than the sale of their new lambs.

"He's working in a hotel bar in Morbay, living in."

Wesley didn't pry further. The fact that Dave was still in the area told him that Rachel held more attraction for the young Australian backpacker than the travelling life he had planned. He looked at her, concentrating on her driving. Her expression gave nothing away. He couldn't tell whether or not Dave's constancy pleased her.

They turned right by the Ring o' Bells, a thatched pub of picture postcard appearance, onto the main road. The ancient stone parish church with its extensive graveyard lay to the right and a high stone wall to the left. "What's behind that wall?" Wesley asked.

Rachel was the fount of all local knowledge, having spent her childhood in the area. "Stokeworthy Manor. It's owned by that Philip Thewlis. He's head of some big company ... he does that TV programme, Popular Business, and he's just been appointed to some government committee or other. Has his fat fingers in all sorts of pies."

Wesley nodded. He, along with a good proportion of the population, knew Philip Thewlis by reputation.

"I wonder if we'll need to interview him," pondered Rachel.

"If he's here. He probably has homes all over. He might have a flag flying when he's in residence, like the Queen."

"Oh, no. I think he's here most of the time. He likes to play lord of the manor, apparently."

There was a large gap in the wall nearly opposite the church. A sizable section had been demolished and replaced with high wire fencing topped with what looked like razor wire: vicious.

"Can we stop here, Rach?"

"Why?" She put her foot on the brake and brought the car to a halt on the wide verge next to the wire. "What time's your postmortem?"

"Won't be a minute."

"Don't be," she said firmly.

Wesley got out of the car and stepped up to the fence, peering through it like a visitor at a zoo looking for some particularly shy creature concealed among the foliage. The ground had been cleared beyond the wire. Mechanical diggers stood some way off like predators ready to pounce when the time was right.

A large area of soil lay bare. Here and there he could see embryonic trenches which had been dug not by machine but painstakingly, by hand. Wesley was on familiar territory: he recognised an archaeological dig when he saw it. A young man of his own age, long-haired with disreputable jeans and a filthy T-shirt, was deep in discussion with an overweight, middle-aged man who wore a yellow hard hat and a suit as smart as Wesley's own. The two parted. From the yellow-hatted man's expression of annoyance, the discussion hadn't been amicable.