An Unhallowed Grave (8 page)

"There's been some trouble at Worthy Court, I believe," Rachel stated innocently. "Do you know anything about it? Do you know a man called D'estry?"

"Sorry. That place is far enough away not to bother us here. Is that all?"

Rachel looked around the studio. There was a pile of paintings propped up near the door. She went over to them and bent down to admire a landscape at the front. "This is lovely, sir. Knot Creek, is it?"

"That's right." Was it Rachel's imagination or did he sound nervous?

She reached out a hand, intending to look at the canvases stacked at the back. Stoke-Brown leaped forward. "I'd rather you didn't ... er, some of them aren't very good. Really." Rachel straightened up and encountered that charming smile again.

Steve, looking around at the other canvases, all attractive, shrugged. "They're a darned sight better than anything I could do."

The artist was now only too keen to get rid of them after his unexpected show of modesty. "If you'll excuse me, I must get on. Sorry I can't be more help."

As they stepped outside into the sunshine, Steve was the first to speak. "I think those pictures were bloody good."

"Yes, they were. But there were some he didn't want me to see. And from the expression on his face when we asked him about Pauline, I'd say there was something he wasn't telling us."

Steve shrugged his shoulders again.

"Do you know, Steve, this village gives me the creeps. There's an atmosphere, don't you think?" Steve, an unimaginative soul, gave another shrug. "I don't like this place," Rachel announced with finality as she got into the driving seat of the police car.

The dig had begun in earnest. Neil was squatting in the largest trench, watched by a small group of serious-faced students. Wesley recognised Nell's colleagues, Matt and Jane, supervising the proceedings in two other trenches, answering the questions of the second-year students assigned to them. For a few moments he experienced a longing to join them, but the voice of Gerry Heffernan focused his thoughts on the matter in hand. "There's your mate, Wcs. Go on. Get him over here. I'm not breaking me neck climbing over this lot."

Neil straightened himself up and grinned. "You were quick. I'll give Squirrel a shout."

"Found anything yet?" Wesley couldn't resist the question.

"Bit of medieval pottery. Give us a chance. We've only just started."

"Have you got the geophysics results?"

Neil nodded. "Yeah. They're quite interesting. There are some strange signals which could be a collapsed stone building or a piece of natural rock." He indicated the trench nearest the road where an attractive young woman in a snowy-white T-shirt was instructing her students in the techniques of her profession.

"Found any evidence of the village extending this way?" Wesley glanced over at the inspector, who was standing watching Jane working in the trench.

"Yeah, there are some earthworks over that way." Neil pointed east. "Among the trees. But we're tackling the area nearest the road first... see if we can turn up anything interesting. Will you make it to the Tradmouth Arms tonight?"

"If I can." He looked over again at his boss, who was starting to show signs of impatience.

"I'll tell you all about it then."

"All about what?"

"The local stories about this site. There used to be a road just over there leading to the Manor. Later on in the eighteenth century the new drive was built and the old road fell into disrepair and got overgrown." He grinned, a sinister gleam in his eye, like one telling a ghost story to a terrified audience. "This was a crossroads."

At this point Heffernan's patience snapped. "Come on, Wcs. Where's this squirrel? If there's any tree-climbing to be done, you're doing it. Right? My legs aren't what they were."

Neil turned and shouted. "Squirrel. You there?"

There was a great rustling in one of the trees fringing the site, and after a few moments a face appeared. The Peruvian cap made Squirrel look like some ancient tree spirit, a guardian of the woodland ... which, after all, was what he had appointed himself to be.

"Come on down, Squirrel. My mate's here ... the one I told you about."

Another great rustling, then Squirrel, agile and wiry, climbed like a monkey out of the branches and landed on the soft earth beneath his tree.

"Squirrel, meet Wcs. He was at uni with me. He's with the police but he's not interested in getting you off the site, only in the murder of that woman you saw. Okay?"

Squirrel nodded, eyeing the smartly dressed Wesley suspiciously.

"Nell's right," Wesley began. "We're only interested in what you saw last night." Gerry Heffernan was making his way carefully over the bumpy terrain. Having decided that Squirrel was unlikely to come to him, he would have to make the effort to approach the timid creature.

"Who's that?" Squirrel swung round as he saw the inspector approaching.

"Don't worry." Wesley held a hand up: a sign of peace. "It's my boss. He just wants to know what you saw last night. It could be important. It could help us catch whoever killed her."

Squirrel was no fool. He knew the information he held might not only help the police but his own cause. "Okay. I'll tell you what I saw." He shuffled his feet, thinking a while before beginning. "It was still light. This woman with fair hair came walking round the corner past the Ring o' Bells. I was in one of the trees over by the road ... just watching what was going on in the village. I've got a good view from up there."

"What was she wearing?" asked Wesley.

"Sort of white mac ... couldn't miss her. It had been warm but it had turned a bit chilly by then. She walked straight past my tree. She looked sort of... I don't know, sort of determined."

"You were close enough to see?"

"I got binoculars, haven't I," Squirrel said proudly. "My early warning system."

"So where did she go? Did you see?"

Squirrel nodded. "Oh yes. I saw. She turned into the drive and walked up towards the Manor."

"What time was this?"

Squirrel put his head on one side, thinking. "I've not got a watch but I guess it was after half nine. I'd heard the church bells chime about five minutes before and the Ring o' Bells was filling up nicely."

"Not tempted to pay a visit there yourself?" asked Gerry mischievously.

Squirrel looked disdainful. "I'm tee total ... and a vegan," he added proudly.

Heffernan, with an effort of self-control, passed no comment on Squirrel's exemplary lifestyle.

"Did you see her call at the Manor?"

"No. I lost sight of her halfway down the path."

"Did you see her come out again?"

Squirrel shook his head. "I gave up watching soon after that, went off to get something to eat with the others."

"Does the drive only lead to the Manor?"

"There's a path leading off it which goes down to Knot Creek. It's a public footpath ... well kept."

There spoke a man, thought Wesley, who had studied the lie of the land.

"It's no use going to see Thewlis now," Squirrel continued. "He's out. I saw him go out in his bloatedcapitalistmobile this morning ... not come back yet."

"Who else lives up there?"

"His missus ... couple of kids. But they were with him. They're all out."

"Anyone else?"

"There's the nanny," said Neil. "About nineteen. Dark-haired. Not bad. And there's a couple of cleaners and a cook who come up from the village and a secretary who drives up every day. Come to think of it, the nanny's the only one who actually lives in."

Heffernan turned to Squirrel. "Thanks for your help, er Squirrel. Keep up the good work." He started to walk off in the direction of the drive. "You coming, Wcs, or what?"

Neil stood gaping. "Well, I'll say this for your boss, Wcs, he's got hidden depths. Keep up the good work? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Perhaps he's a bit of an eco-warrior on the sly. But he'll have to go on a diet or he'll never make it up into those trees. Best be off, Neil. See you later, I hope."

Squirrel watched as the policemen disappeared, thinking with some satisfaction that support sometimes came from the most unexpected quarters.

Gemma Matherley was glad to have some time to herself. She relished every spare hour when she could pass on responsibility for Amanda and Guy to their idle bitch of a mother. But however obnoxious the kids were, however viciously they fought each other, it was better to have her job looking after their ever-increasing demands than to be stuck at home with her mum and Leanne, her stupid bitch of a sister.

Gemma began to paint her nails, smiling to herself as she remembered her encounter with her grandmother that morning. How she'd given the old cow a turn when she'd come in to clean the master bedroom. Her smile turned to a bubble of laughter. Queen Elizabeth's bed. Gemma had spent her school history lessons inscribing the names of pop stars on her pencil case, but even with her paltry amount of historical knowledge, she knew that Elizabeth had been known as the Virgin Queen. She must be turning in her grave, Gemma thought with glee, at what had gone on in her bed that morning when the kids and Mrs. Thewlis were out riding.

And that interfering Brent woman was dead: killed herself, so they said. Gemma couldn't pretend she was sorry: that would be hypocritical and Gemma wasn't that. It still riled her that her grandmother had asked Pauline Brent to speak to Mr. Thewlis. The cheek of it. She recalled her grandmother's discovery that morning with a further glow of satisfaction. That would teach her to mind her own business.

Gemma finished her nails and held them out in front of her for inspection. Then she got up and walked about the room, waving her hands about to dry the pale blue varnish. She strolled over to the window, bored. Her room was at the top of the house, in what had once been the servants' quarters. She had a good view of the drive and she could see two men approaching. One was young, dark-skinned and smartly dressed; rather good-looking. The other was overweight, middle-aged and scruffy with unruly greying curls. An incongruous pair. They were walking up the drive, deep in discussion. Then they turned off to follow the footpath to the creek.

Could they be the police? Gemma turned away from the window. Even if they found her, even if they came to question her, she would keep quiet about what she had seen last night.

"Aren't we calling at the Manor, sir?" Wesley was puzzled by his boss's sudden change of route.

"You heard what Squirrel said. There's nobody at home."

There's the nanny."

"She can wait. So can the others. We'll pay them a visit tomorrow when they're off their guard after the Sunday roast. I wonder if Rachel and Steve have turned up anything with those artists."

"Did Pauline Brent strike you as the type to mix with artists?"

"That's the point, Wcs. We don't really know much about her, do we? She was the doctor's receptionist. She helped out at village functions but kept in the background. She was a quiet woman, according to the vicar. Not the sort to make enemies. You've talked to Mrs. Green. What about her other neighbours?"

"The other cottage in that row belongs to a local family with two young kids. They didn't see or hear anything unusual last night." Wesley changed the subject. "Why are we heading down here, sir? Where does this lead?"

"Knot Creek. I fancied having a quick look. If she wasn't going to the Manor, this is where she could have been heading."

The path, shaded by trees, was well maintained and smooth: no hacking through the undergrowth here. At least, Wesley thought,

Philip Thewlis took his obligation to maintain the public footpath that ran through his land seriously.

"Do you think Pauline was meeting somebody?"

"Well, our friend Squirrel said she looked determined. It's a good bet she was going to have it out with someone."

"But she wasn't the battle-axe type. If she was the village busybody, always out for confrontation, I could understand it."

"She stood up to D'estry and got threatened for her pains. We'll stroll up to Worthy Court when we've finished here and see if he's back."

The path leading down to the creek became sandy as it emerged from the trees. Then it dropped away steeply to form a bank, full of exposed roots and stones.

Knot Creek, an inlet off the River Trad, was a picturesque spot. On the far bank stood cottages behind their rickety boat houses Small boats bobbed in the channel of water down the centre of the creek. The tide was out and a wide area of muddy sand lay exposed and strewn with seaweed. A small, sleek cabin cruiser, the Pride of de Stoke, lay helpless on its side on the wet sand, waiting to be floated back to life when the tide returned. The bleached wooden skeleton of a large vessel also lay on its side some way away, a relic of the days when the River Trad and its inlets had buzzed with commercial traffic. Now the boat's remains had acquired a more romantic look: the wreck of an old pirate ship; the hull of an ancient war craft -anything the imagination of a child or a romantically inclined adult could manufacture.

There were a couple of rowing boats pulled up on the sand near the end of the footpath, probably there for the use of the Manor's occupants, thought Gerry Heffernan. "This place hasn't changed much since I was last here," he commented, seeing Wesley looking around.

"It's a lovely spot."

"You're right there, Wcs. Very peaceful. We had a picnic here once," he said wistfully, 'when the kids were small. Kathy used to say it was one of the good things about living round here lots of places for picnics."

"We've not reached that stage yet. When Michael's a bit older ..." Wesley paused. "Actually, I've been meaning to ask you. Er ... it's Michael's christening at the end of next month.

We ... er, Pam and I wondered if you'd like to come. Two o'clock... Sunday the 28th."

Gerry Heffernan's face lit up with a wide, delighted smile.

"My parents are coming from London," Wesley continued. "And my sister's booked some time off duty; she's coming over from Oxford. It won't be a big do, but... '