An Unhallowed Grave (6 page)

"The same. I seen her at the doctor's and round the village."

"Did you see anyone else last night? When you first went into the churchyard was there anyone about? Anyone at all?"

The girls shook their heads, but from the sly look they exchanged Heffernan could tell they were lying.

The Ring o' Bells was the obvious choice for lunch. It was a pretty pub, thatched and pink-washed, which practised strict segregation: locals in the nicotine-stained public bar; tourists, weekenders and the educated classes in the low-beamed comfort of the lounge.

All Wesley's instincts told him to head for the lounge as the prospect of being stared at and their conversation being taken down and used in evidence all over the village didn't appeal. Gerry Heffernan had to admit that his sergeant had a point. They found a table by a tiny leaded window and settled down.

Heffernan had consumed half a bacon baguette and was halfway through his first pint of best bitter before he spoke. "Those two lasses were lying through their teeth. They saw someone all right."

Wesley nodded and took a sip of orange juice. "It must be someone they want to protect. A friend? Member of the family? Boyfriend?"

"We could get Rachel to have a word. She might get something out of them the big-sister touch. As long as she doesn't take DC Carstairs with her. That pair'd fuel his Lolita fantasies. Did you see how they were dressed ... or rather undressed? Would you let any daughter of yours go round like that? I know I wouldn't."

"They want to follow fashion at that age. I can remember my father stopping my sister going to a school disco because he thought her dress was too revealing."

"Did you agree with him?"

Wesley shrugged. "I said I did. Anything to get one over on my sister-the old sibling rivalry. We get on fine now, though." He bit into his tuna sandwich and changed the subject. "So what have we got so far, sir?"

Gerry Heffernan sat back, pint in hand. "Pauline Brent, spinster of this and probably every other parish, came here fifteen years ago. She made no enemies that we know of among the locals but received threats from one Julian D'estry. Our first priority is to hear what this D'estry character has to say for himself, and our second is to find out more about Pauline. Who were her friends? Was there a man in her life? That sort of thing."

"Rachel and I looked through her things but we didn't find anything of interest. In fact it was strange." He paused for a moment, deep in thought. "There wasn't anything personal at all. No letters, no address book

"The doctor she worked for's away for the weekend. We'll talk to him first thing on Monday, see if he can tell us anything about her." Heffernan sighed. "There might be things going on under the surface in this village that we don't know about yet. In the old days every village'd have a police house and the village constable'd know exactly who had a grudge against who and why, going back a few generations. Now they're all based in Neston and Tradmouth and just whizz through in their patrol cars. Not the same, is it? No in-depth local knowledge until a recordable crime's committed they haven't a clue what's going on."

Wesley nodded in agreement. "Have we managed to find ourselves an incident room?"

"Village hall. They're putting in the phone lines now." He looked round the horse-brass-covered walls of the Ring o' Bells'

lounge. Across the bar he could see the sparsely populated public bar where a few men were playing pool. "At least this place serves a good pint."

Wesley tried to make his next announcement sound casual. "Neil Watson's doing a dig in the manor grounds."

Heffernan looked up sharply. "That mate of yours follows us around like a bad smell. Has he dug up anything interesting yet?"

"It's early days. Apparently the lord of the manor's building a holiday place on a bit of his land near the road ... like those flashy cottages opposite the dead woman's house, only much bigger. According to local historians the site's supposed to be of some interest, so the planners are letting Neil see what he can find before the concrete's poured in." He drained his pint of orange juice. "Not everybody thinks the new development's a good idea. There are some protesters up there already. I'd better not tell Pam or she'd be up there in the trees with them."

"I didn't know your wife had revolutionary tendencies, Wcs."

"She has her moments." He sighed.

Heffernan finished his pint and looked at his empty glass with appreciation. "Not a bad pint that." He stood up. "I'm going to take a look round the churchyard ... I'll have a butcher's at the church and all if it's open: might give us some divine inspiration. Coming?"

Wesley nodded enthusiastically. His boss's love of wandering round old churches had surprised him at first, but now he considered it an asset that his inspector's taste in this particular matter matched his own.

The churchyard was still cordoned off, although the SO COs seemed to have finished their work. Heffernan looked up at the great yew tree. The ladder still stood against it, dusty with fingerprint powder. "Why did they always plant yews in churchyards, Wcs? Were they sacred or what?"

"Nothing so mystical. They were poisonous so they were planted where cattle couldn't get at them. They used the wood for longbows, too ... and the leaves for palms on Palm Sunday."

"You're a mine of useless information, Wesley. Is that what they taught you at that university of yours? Come on, let's see if the church is open."

There was a spotty young constable standing guard at the church door. He drew himself to attention when he saw the inspector approaching.

"Hello, Johnson. All quiet?"

"Yes, sir. SO COs say they've finished now." He hesitated, weighing up whether or not his next piece of information was important enough to relay to a senior officer. He decided to be on the safe side. "A couple of lads were here half an hour ago, sort of hanging around the gate."

"Being nosey?"

Johnson put his head on one side, considering the question. "No. They looked sort of ... furtive, if you know what I mean. One had very short blond hair, probably dyed. They other was taller with a ponytail."

"Thanks. If you see these two arch-criminals again, let us know, won't you."

"Do you think it's important?" Wesley asked quietly as they stepped into the church porch.

"No idea. Probably just being nosey. A murder's a bit of excitement to brighten up their dull little lives. Still, it gives Johnson something to do." Gerry Heffernan pushed at the battered oak door, half expecting, in these days of high crime and scant respect, to find it locked. But it swung open with an ear-splitting creek.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you, sir," a voice called from outside the porch. "The vicar's in there."

Heffernan turned. "Thanks, Johnson. We'll make sure we mind our language."

Heffernan and Wesley stepped inside the cool church, their eyes adjusting to the gloom after the bright June sunshine outside. A man stood by the altar. He was in his late thirties, tall, over six foot, with dark hair, glasses and the face of an earnest rodent. He wore a T-shirt and flawless jeans. He looked like an off-duty chartered accountant.

"Good afternoon," he began nervously. "I'm sorry, but I don't think the police are letting anyone into the

"We are the police. DI Heffernan and DS Peterson. Are you the vicar, by any chance?"

The man nodded. "The Reverend Twotrees... Brian. Pleased to meet you." He strode up to them and shook hands heartily. "It's an awful business. Tragic."

"Did you know Miss Brent?"

"Yes. She wasn't one of our leading lights, you understand: not one to push herself forward. A quiet woman. A nice woman, I'd say."

"Can you tell us anything else about her?" asked Wesley. "Did she give you any indication that anything was wrong? Did she seem worried about anything?"

"I must admit I haven't seen her for a couple of weeks. She wasn't in church last Sunday and I live in the village of Welton, three miles away. I'm responsible for three parishes, you understand."

Heffernan understood all right. Like those of the police, the rural clergy's modern-day arrangements weren't as conducive to local knowledge as they had been in the past.

"Did she come to church every week?"

"Not every week."

"So it wasn't unusual for her to miss the service last Sunday?"

"No, not at all."

"Was she popular?"

"I think so. Yes. As I said, she was a quiet woman, not the sort to make enemies. I'm sorry I can't be more help."

Gerry Heffernan nodded. "That's okay, Vicar. We'll just take a look around your church if we may." He saw that the vicar looked mildly alarmed. "Not a professional look ... just out of interest," he assured him.

The Rev. Twotrees' face lit up. "You're interested in old churches, then?" he asked with some disbelief, looking them up and down.

"Oh, aye, always have been. And' Sergeant Peterson here's got a degree in archaeology, so he's almost a professional."

"Really?" The vicar looked at Wesley with new eyes. "So how did you end up in the police force, Sergeant?"

"A grandfather who was a senior detective back in Trinidad and a taste for reading too much Sherlock Holmes in my formative years," answered Wesley with a modest smile.

"That really is amazing," said the vicar, genuinely interested. Wesley hoped he wouldn't be the subject of the reverend's next sermon. "Come on. I'll show you around."

The vicar did the guided tour, revealing with appropriate modesty that he was an Oxford man. Wesley soon found himself chatting about his sister, Maritia, who had read medicine at Oxford, and his own days at Exeter University.

Gerry Heffernan, who had never got further than his local technical college in Liverpool to study navigation, began to feel left out. "Nice rood screen," he commented, feeling that he had to show these two academics that at least he knew what the thing was called. He studied the elaborately carved edifice which separated the chancel from the nave. It was coloured in faded, subtle, medieval pigments and carved with breathtaking intricacy: a thing of true beauty.

"It's reputedly one of the finest in Devon," said the vicar proudly.

"That's what they all say," replied Heffernan with a cheeky grin.

Wesley's mind turned to the case he'd been working on before Pauline Brent's death. "Have you heard about the things that have been going missing from churches round here?"

"Yes. It's quite a talking point among the local clergy. It amazes everyone that the items are actually returned. Our only real treasure as far as I know is a rather nice silver chalice, and I keep that in the vestry safe."

"Good. The thieves haven't resorted to safe-cracking yet."

"Give 'em time," said Gerry Heffernan wearily, looking around the church.

Then he spotted it. On the south wall was a great stone framework, growing from floor level like flush-carved scaffolding, a stained-glass window inserted cheekily in its centre. At first Heffernan took it for wood, a strange patch of half-timbering on a white plastered wall. But on closer inspection it was mellow, golden stone, punctuated by holes as if once, in some forgotten time, it had, like a tree, been burdened with some strange fruit. But now only the framework remained, its original purpose forgotten. "What's that?" Gerry pointed and Wesley and the vicar swung round.

"I was coming to that," said the vicar smoothly. "It's what's left of our Jesse tree. Very rare. There's only a handful of examples in the country, and none have remained intact. Our ancestors considered them a symbol of Catholic superstition: graven images and all that."

"So what was it?"

Wesley took over. "There was a figure of Jesse, the father of King David, in the centre at the base." He strolled over to the south wall and gently touched the hacked stone. "This must have been where Jesse was: this big stone panel beneath the window. The carving has been removed but it looks as though the panel behind it was painted."

Heffernan bent down to look. "So it was. Looks a bit of a mess. Someone's had a go at it..." He reached out, preparing to scratch off the offending paint.

Wesley acted quickly, grabbing his boss's arm before he could do any damage. "That paint's the original. It's medieval."

"About 1490, actually." The vicar shot Wesley a grateful glance.

"So what are all them holes?"

"The reclining figure of Jesse had a tree sprouting from his groin."

"Painful," Heffernan uttered under his breath.

"And the holes supported statues of Jesse's descendants, culminating in Christ in glory right up at the top above the window."

"A sort of family tree?"

"If you like. Yes."

"So who was there right at the bottom?"

"Jesse's always at the base."

"No he's not, Wcs. Look."

Wesley respected his inspector's talents as a detective, but medieval religious sculpture was definitely not his forte. With an effort of patience he looked where Heffernan was pointing.

"If that was Jesse there on that big slab under the window, who was down here near the floor? The poor relations?"

Wesley looked round at the vicar for inspiration.

"I have wondered about those holes down there myself." Brian Twotrees bent to examine them. "I've been told that it's most unusual to have anyone below the Jesse figure. After all, the point of the whole thing is to show Christ's descent from Jesse as prophesied in the Old Testament. "There shall come forth a shoot from the stump of Jesse and a branch shall grow out of his roots" Isaiah chapter eleven, verse one," he quoted helpfully.

"So what happened to all the figures?" asked Heffernan naively.

"The Reformation happened," said the vicar cheerfully. "All statues and images were swept from the churches and smashed up or burned. Archbishop Cranmer called them "jolly musters"." He sounded rather enthusiastic about all this destruction.

"Sounds like that cultural revolution they had in China," said Heffernan with disbelief.