An Unhallowed Grave (7 page)

"Oh, it was, Inspector. Very like. The old order was destroyed ... and was seen to be destroyed."

"How could they have just smashed up all that art? There must have been some beautiful stuff."

"Of course, whether you approve or not depends on where you stand theologically." The vicar leaned towards Wesley confidentially. "I'm inclined towards plainer forms of worship myself."

"So what happened to the Jesse carvings from here?" asked Wesley.

"There are accounts of churches in this area being visited and lists of what was destroyed, but apparently there's no mention of our Jesse tree in any of the commissioners' records." He sighed. Wesley suspected that Brian Twotrees would have been glad to see the beautiful thing that the Jesse tree must have been smashed into dust by the iconoclasts' hammers. "Actually," he continued, 'the fate of the Jesse tree is the subject of local legend. Some say it was dismantled by the villagers and stored in the cellars of the Manor; others say it was thrown into Knot Creek. It's all a bit of a mystery, really."

"It's not the only thing that's a mystery around here," said Gerry Heffernan as his mind returned to Pauline Brent's hanging body.

Neil Watson returned from his meeting with Philip Thewlis up at the Manor feeling pleased with himself. He'd say one thing for Thewlis he was thorough. He had wanted to know exactly how long the excavations would take; how many archaeologists would be involved; exactly where the trenches would be dug; and, most importantly, when the diggers could move in and begin work on the construction. But he'd met his match with Neil, who had patiently explained that the time the dig would take depended on what they found. If, he had said tongue in cheek, they were to find, say, an important Roman villa, then an alternative site might have to be found for the development. This had been a piece of mischief Neil couldn't resist. There was no suggestion that the

Roman empire had ever shown much interest in Stokeworthy. But it had been worth being a little economical with history to see Thewlis's face redden dangerously.

"Neil," a voice called from the trees.

Neil looked up. A man with the face of an innocent elf looked down at him. He was probably in his thirties but, from his manner, seemed much younger. He wore an embroidered Peruvian cap over his long matted hair and his summer uniform of disintegrating tie-dyed T-shirt and filthy surfing shorts. "Hi, Squirrel. How are you doing?"

"You know that murder? The old bird in the churchyard?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

"I saw her last night. Should I let the pigs know? What do you think? I don't want to give 'em a chance to get me down from here."

Neil smiled. "No worries. There's no way they'll get you down. I know just the man ... mate of mine. Trust me." He extracted his mobile phone from the pocket of his jeans.

"Tell your mate I saw that woman going towards the Manor."

"Will do," said Neil as he waited for Wesley to answer his phone.

Elizabeth Pine is a woman of ill fame and unfit to be amongst honest people. Alice de Neston did tell the jury that she did see her with John Fleecer, the blacksmith's son in the churchyard, and she being a married woman and twice his age.

Order: it is agreed by the Steward and jury that if any under tenant is presented to be of ill fame and does not reform then four honest persons, with the Steward's consent, may expel such persons from the village.

From the Court Rolls of Stokeworthy Manor

Jo and Leanne, recovered from their ordeal of the night before, had taken up their usual Saturday afternoon post at the bus shelter opposite the village hall. This Saturday was more eventful than most as the village hall had been transformed into an ad hoc police station. Stokeworthy had been all but abandoned by the local bus operator, who grudgingly allowed the village two buses a day into Tradmouth, so the girls had the shelter to themselves. Leanne nudged Jo when she spotted a dark-haired young man getting out of an Escort XR31. He wore an expensive leather jacket in defiance of the heat.

"He's not bad," Leanne whispered as Steve Carstairs turned to look at them and gave them a knowing wink. Emboldened by this encouragement, Leanne called out, "Hey. You a copper?"

Steve sauntered towards the girls, looking them up and down, his eyes coming to rest on their exposed bellies. "Might be. Why do you ask?"

"We found the body."

"Oh, aye?" The girls were interested, he could tell. Just longing to be chatted up.

Then suddenly Jo took Leanne's arm, her gaze focused beyond Steve's face. "We've got to go."

Leanne shook off her companion's hand. "Why?" She was annoyed with Jo. Why did she have to ruin things just when she had attracted the attentions of a good-looking member of the opposite sex ... and one with a decent car at that. He was a bit old, mid-twenties probably, but then Leanne preferred the more mature man: better than the acned specimens that hung around the village.

Jo tried again, her eyes checking the passage at the side of the village shop where she could see Lee and Gaz waiting, watching her talking to the pigs. Somehow she had to get Leanne away. "Leanne. Come on. We've-got to meet Lee. Remember?"

To Steve Carstairs' disappointment, Jo's tactic worked. "See you around, then," Leanne said casually before walking off. As the girls sauntered away, he watched them appreciatively. He would keep an eye out for them around the village. Stokeworthy might yet have its compensations.

The girls waited for Steve to disappear safely into the village hall before approaching their quarry. Two lads, one with dyed blond hair, the other wearing his long greasy locks in a ponytail, lounged against the side wall of the village shop, waiting for the girls to join them. They greeted them with studied indifference. Then the blond boy spoke. "Were you talking to one of them pigs? The one in the leather jacket who reckoned he was flash?"

Jo got in first. "It was Leanne. She fancied him. I thought he was a wanker," she assured the lads proudly: she would never let the side down.

"I can handle him," Leanne said, nonchalant.

"Bet you can. Bet that's what he's after ... you handling him." The ponytailed boy leered unpleasantly. "That right, Gaz? Do you reckon he wants to give her one?"

"Piss off." Leanne turned away, blushing.

"You heard what happened last night?" "Course we heard. We saw her, flying up in the tree. We were stoned. You thought she was an angel, didn't you, Gaz? An angel on the Christmas tree."

"You must have seen her before us, then. We found her. Gave us a right turn."

"Don't remember much about it." Lee shook his head, grinning. "It was a fucking good trip. Amazing."

Leanne turned back and looked at them. She felt uneasy. Was murder, death, really a thing to be taken that lightly? "Have you told the pigs what you saw?"

Gaz snorted. "Get real. We were stoned. Besides ... Lee and Gaz exchanged looks. There was something else.

"Besides what?" Leanne said, challenging.

"Promise you won't tell that pig? Even if he gets his leg over?"

"Don't be pathetic. Come on. What is it?"

"We did one of them artists' places ... in the old water mill. We saw the bloke go out and we broke in. Dead easy."

Leanne looked away. She didn't want to hear. Jo was looking at Gaz with terrified admiration. This was dangerous. This was real.

"Did you get much?"

"Bit of cash. And I found this." He delved into the back pocket of his jeans, drew out a photograph and handed it to Leanne. "What do you reckon? That's her, isn't it? The doctor's receptionist? The one who topped herself?"

Jo snatched the photograph from Leanne's hand and stared at it. It was a recent picture of Pauline Brent, and Jo had to acknowledge that she'd been in very good shape for her age. After all, there's no hiding lumps, bumps and wrinkles when you are photographed stark naked.

"Steve." Gerry Heffernan looked at his watch. "Nice of you to call in."

Steve Carstairs took his leather jacket off and draped it casually over one shoulder. He could do without the boss's sarcastic comments. He was still suffering from the effects of the eight pints of lager he had consumed in a club in Morbay the previous evening. He had felt temporarily better when that young girl had given him the come-on outside the village hall, but now his thumping headache had returned with a vengeance.

The incident room was taking shape. Phones and computers had been installed; desks littered the splintery parquet floor. At one end, by the rickety stage, stood a large notice-board decorated with photographs of Pauline Brent: Pauline hanging from the yew tree; Pauline cut down and lying on the churchyard grass; a picture of Pauline in life smiling outside her cottage, acquired by Wesley and Rachel during their search of her home.

Gerry Heffernan's voice boomed out as he called his team together. Steve wished he wouldn't shout so loud. When the inspector had finished recapping on the case so far and assigned everyone to their tasks, Steve discovered with some satisfaction that he and Rachel Tracey had been teamed up to visit the old water mill at the end of Worthy Lane, now home to a colony of artists if colony was the right word. Steve searched for an appropriate collective noun: a layabout of artists; a scrounge of artists. He had a low opinion of anyone who pursued what he considered to be a namby-pamby occupation. He felt someone tap his shoulder firmly and swung round. It was Rachel.

"Come on. The boss says you're with me. I'm driving."

As Rachel left the incident room, Steve following behind, his eyes downcast in appreciation of her calves, the telephone range on Wesley Peterson's desk and he rushed over to answer it.

"Where have you been? I've been trying to ring you." Neil Watson sounded quite indignant on the other end of the line.

"Sorry. Been busy. What is it?"

"Just a juicy bit of information for you. One of our protesters here saw that murdered woman going up to the Manor last night. Thought you might be interested."

"I'll come round right away. Is he still there, this protester?"

"Silly question, Wcs. He's not budging till he's forced out."

"What's his name?"

"Squirrel."

"Up a tree, is he?"

"You guessed it."

Wesley replaced the receiver with a smile and went over to where Gerry Heffernan was sorting through witness statements. "Sir, I've had a call from Neil Watson. He says the dead woman was seen last night visiting the Manor."

Heffernan looked at his sergeant with sudden interest. "What time was this?"

"He didn't say. But the witness who saw her is there with Neil now. Shall we go and have a word?"

"Certainly. We can call in on our way to see this D'estry character. Who is it, this witness?"

Wesley grinned widely. "A squirrel, sir." Heffernan began to laugh. "There's no answer to that. Come on, then. Let's get going before this squirrel runs off to hide his nuts."

The old water mill at the end of Worthy Lane was the last building in Stokeworthy before the landscape changed to open farmland. A small but spirited brook, hurtling down towards Knot Creek, had provided power for the mill in its working days. Now, passing by the side of the building, it gurgled picturesquely, a thing of leisure rather than industry.

There were three apartments in all, each comprising a large studio and living accommodation, and Rachel and Steve found the three artists at home. The first two, an elderly man with a mane of steel-grey hair and a mouse-haired woman with an other worldly manner, had seen nothing. They had stayed in last night and did not know Pauline Brent.

The third apartment was on the ground floor and belonged to a man called Charles Stoke-Brown. He opened his door, a worried expression on his lined but still handsome face, and stood aside meekly to admit them. He was a tall man with even, tanned features and a full head of grey hair worn in a neat ponytail. Rachel thought he must have been quite something in his youth ... was still quite something, in fact.

He led them into his studio, which was littered with paintings in various stages of completion. A large canvas dominated the far wall; on it was painted what looked like a coat of arms, a golden eagle flying above an ancient ship.

Rachel noticed the broken pane of glass in the window. Some of the drawers stood open and their contents lay strewn on the floor, but the large desk in the corner of the room appeared undisturbed. Rachel's eyes were drawn to a small framed sketch of some sort of tree lying in the centre of the desk. Such delicate work. Charles Stoke-Brown was a talented man. "He saw her looking at it and deftly made a show of tidying the desk, covering the picture with a piece of rag.

"I hope you don't mind me mentioning it, sir, but I couldn't help noticing that one of your windows is broken."

"Er ... yes. I had a breakin last night. Just kids probably," he said, awkwardly.

"Did you report it?"

"Er, yes ... one has to, for the insurance company. A local constable came round this morning. Nothing much was taken, just some cash. And a small painting ... not one of my best. It's more of a nuisance than anything." He fixed her with a charming smile. The subject was closed.

"If we can just ask a few questions, sir," Steve began. "Have you heard that a woman was found murdered in the churchyard last night? Hanged," he added with relish. "Here's a photo of her." He handed Charles Stoke-Brown the picture of Pauline outside her cottage. "Her name was Pauline Brent. She worked at the doctor's surgery. Did you know her at all?"

Something was bothering Stoke-Brown. Rachel could tell. He took a deep breath, his face impassive. "I know her," he said simply. "But I didn't see her last night. Sorry I can't be more help." He poured himself a drink from a half-full bottle of whisky and drank it down in one.

"Where were you last night, sir?"

"I was visiting my ex-wife in Plymouth."