Presumed Dead (12 page)

His ring on the doorbell was answered by a
stout woman in her mid fifties, dressed in tweeds with a flowery apron tied
around her midriff. ‘Could you tell me, is the vicar available please?’ David
asked politely.

‘Certainly, certainly,‘ the woman said in a
deep resonant voice, throwing the door open wide. ‘Do come in, my husband is
writing his sermon at the moment, I’ll show you through to his study.’ She set
off into the house, then looked back over her shoulder and said, ‘I must
apologize for answering the door my apron, but I’m in the middle of arranging
some flowers for the church.’ David smiled and followed her into the house,
closing the door behind him. They went down a dark passageway towards the rear
of the house, then the woman stopped abruptly, knocked on a door and entered.
The vicar, a thin, white haired man of about sixty, was seated behind a huge
oak desk in the middle of the paneled room, surrounded by open books, writing
on a pad.

‘Gentleman to see you, Peter,’ she said,
showing David in then closing the door behind him.

The vicar stood up, smiled and held out his
hand. ‘Delighted to meet you, er, Mr…?’

‘Wiseman, David Wiseman.’ They shook hands.

‘Ah, a cousin from across the water,
splendid, splendid,’ the vicar said jovially. ‘Sit down Mr. Wiseman. Now, what
can I do for you?’

David sat, then cleared his throat. ‘I
believe my aunt was buried in your churchyard about twenty-five years ago. I
was wondering if you would be able to help me find her grave?’

‘Certainly, certainly,’ the vicar said,
reaching over to retrieve a large ledger from the side of his desk. Opening the
volume, he looked up and asked, ‘What was the dear lady’s name?’

‘Freda Webley, Lady Freda Webley.’

The vicar’s jovial air disappeared, to be
replaced by a look of sadness as he slowly closed the ledger and folded his
hands over it. ‘I don’t need the church records to help me find her,’ he said,
shaking his head. ‘A sad case, terribly sad. She’d only been married a matter
of weeks you know, and she was so happy and full of life.’

‘You knew her?’ David asked with surprise.

‘Yes, yes. I hadn’t been here long when Sir
Ross arrived back from Europe with your aunt. He invited me up to Webley Manor
to discuss the question of their betrothal in the church. I’m afraid he became
rather angry when I pointed out that it was impossible for him to marry a lady
of a different faith in an Anglican church. She was a Jew, you know, got out of
Germany just before the war.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Of course, of course. Anyway, I told them
that if the lady cared to convert to Sir Ross’s faith, then I’d be more than
happy to act as her mentor and guide her through the procedure, but it seems
they were in a hurry, or at least Sir Ross was.’

‘How do you mean?’ David asked.

‘She seemed quite keen on the idea of
conversion and said she would come and see me the following day to discuss it
further, but she didn’t keep her appointment and the next thing I heard, they
had gone down to London and been married in a registry office.’

‘Did you see her again after that?’

‘No, they had only been back a few days
before she fell ill, then it was only a matter of weeks before Sir Ross came to
see me with the dreadful news that she had passed away. It seemed that one
moment we were discussing their wedding, and the next we were discussing her
funeral. It was dreadful, perfectly dreadful, and now, judging by the Times
this morning, I shall be receiving another visit from him.’

‘Why do you think he’ll come to you?’ David
asked with surprise.

‘To discuss the family vault, of course. I
expect he will want to lay his good lady to rest there.’

‘Even though he isn’t lord of the manor any
more and doesn’t even live near here?’

‘Yes, absolutely. Sticklers for tradition
these old families, you know. The Webleys have been buried at the Minster for
over three hundred years, I can’t see Sir Ross breaking that tradition now.’

‘Speaking of which, would it be possible to
see the Webley vault?’

‘Of course, of course,’ the vicar said,
getting up from behind his desk. ‘That’s what you came for after all, wasn’t
it? Let’s go over there now.’

With the vicar leading the way, they went
out of the house and across the road to the churchyard. Once through the gates,
they headed around to the south side of the church, where the more elaborate
memorials stood on a sunny patch of grass that led to the ruined cloister
arcade of the old abbey.

‘Wow!’ David exclaimed. ‘What did that
place used to be?’

‘That was Stone Abbey,’ the vicar
explained. ‘It was founded by King Henry II in 1163 as a priory for the
Augustinian monks who were largely responsible for rebuilding the church. It
fell into disuse after the Dissolution in 1539. Not much of it survives now,
except the cloister arches and the remnants of one or two processional
doorways.’ David shook his head with wonder.

They followed a winding path between the
memorials until the vicar stopped in front of what looked like a stone shed
with a shallow pitched roof. It was made entirely from discolored white marble
and had Grecian style corner columns and the Webley family crest elaborately
carved on the solid door, which was protected by a heavy, rusted iron gate,
securely padlocked across its face. The entire edifice looked scruffy and
unkempt with moss growing in clumps on the roof and a thick tangle of ivy
around the entrance. ‘Here we are,’ the vicar said, ‘the Webley family vault.’

David stared in disbelief. ‘It’s kind of
small, isn’t it? I was expecting something much bigger.’

‘This is only the entrance you understand,’
the vicar explained. ‘The vault itself is underground and is quite large. It
was originally built in 1686, just after King James II awarded a title, the
village, the manor house and all the surrounding lands to an ancestor of Sir Ross’s
for his support in crushing the revolt of the Duke of Monmouth.’

‘You mean the king just gave the Webley
family this whole area for helping him out?’ David asked incredulously.

‘That’s the way it used to happen in those
days,’ the vicar explained. ‘Most of the wealthy families in this country
received their lands and titles through services to the monarchy.’

‘And my aunt is down there in the vault?’
David asked.

‘Yes, along with Sir Ross’s parents and
countless other ancestors. They were interred within a few years of each other
you know, the parents and then your aunt… sad times, sad times,’ the vicar
said, shaking his head. ‘The vault hasn’t been opened since then, thankfully.’

‘So it’s not possible to go down there,’
David said with disappointment.

‘Oh no,’ the vicar said with some distaste.
‘The vault is only opened on the death of a Webley in order to inter the body.’

‘I see,’ David said, then looking at the
structure again, he asked, ‘it looks kind of abandoned, doesn’t anyone ever
come and visit it at all?’

‘Sadly not. Since Sir Ross sold the Manor
and moved away, he hasn’t been here once to my knowledge. I keep track of him
by reading the papers, but I haven’t seen him in person for the best part of
twenty years.’

‘That’s disgraceful,’ David said with
disgust. ‘Would you mind if I tidied it up a little while I’m here? I hate to
see my aunt’s final resting-place in such a mess.’

‘Not at all, you carry on, but you will
have to excuse me, I must get back to my sermon.’

‘That’s fine, thank you for all your help
and the interesting information. You have a fine place here.’

‘We are rather proud of it,’ the vicar
said, ‘even though pride is a sin.’

‘That reminds me,’ David said, ‘there was
one other thing I wanted to ask you. Do you happen to know the name of the
doctor who attended my aunt when she was sick?’

‘The Webleys always had Doctor Mason from
the village, didn’t trust anyone else.’

‘Does he still live here in the village?’
David asked.

‘Certainly, but he doesn’t practice any
more, except for one or two special patients. He must be over seventy by now.
He still lives in his old surgery in the High Street, three doors up from the
pub. You can’t miss it.’

‘Thank you again for all your help, and I’m
sorry I interrupted the work on your sermon.’

‘Don’t apologize, dear boy,’ the vicar
chuckled. ‘I’m sure my parishioners will secretly thank you if it ends up five
minutes shorter. Well, must be off, it was nice to meet you.’

David watched as the vicar ambled off down
the path chuckling to himself, then took out the Swiss Army Knife which he’d
bought earlier in the week, stripped off his jacket, and set about the ivy and
moss which was threatening to engulf his aunt’s vault.

.

Half an hour later, under the bewildered
gaze of the two men watching discreetly from the other side of the graveyard,
he had the vault looking much better. He’d cut away all the ivy to reveal the
Webley family crest and motto, and had scraped most of the moss from the
marble, leaving it all in a neat pile beside the path for the resident gardener
to dispose of. Satisfied with his work and feeling that he’d paid just homage
to his aunt, he sat cross-legged on the grass in the shade of a nearby oak tree
contemplating all he’d learnt from the vicar. The fact that Webley had not been
to visit the grave in over twenty years didn’t surprise him at all. In fact, it
reinforced his opinion of the man. And the way Webley had seemed to rush Aunt
Freda into marriage just before she got sick was suspicious also. He wondered
what, if anything he would learn from the doctor about that.

With that in mind, he got to his feet, put
his jacket on, took one last look at the vault then set off towards the
churchyard entrance and the High Street. Five minutes later, he was knocking on
the doctor’s front door and was getting no response. He was about to knock
again when an old woman walked by and said without stopping, ‘If it’s the
doctor you’re after, he’s probably in the King’s Head.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ David called after her,
then walked the short distance to the pub. Although it was only a little after
eleven-thirty, there were already several old men sitting up to the bar
enjoying a drink. David walked in and said to the barman, ‘I’m looking for
Doctor Mason? I was told he might be in here?’

The most dignified of the old men at the
bar, a ruddy-faced cherub of a man wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches
on the elbows, turned to him and said, ‘I’m Mason, what can I do for you?’

David held out his hand to the doctor and
said, ‘My name is David Wiseman, I’m Lady Freda Webley’s nephew.’

The doctor looked thoughtful as he shook
hands then asked, ‘What brings you to our village, Mr. Wiseman?’

‘I’ve come up to visit my aunt’s grave and
to try to speak with anyone who might remember her.’

‘I remember Lady Freda very well,’ the
doctor said solemnly.

‘Is there someplace we can talk in
private?’ David asked. ‘There are some things I need to know.’

Addressing the barman, Mason said, ‘Another
whiskey for me and whatever Mr. Wiseman is having, in the snug if you please.’

David asked for a Coke, then followed the
doctor into the snug bar at the back of the pub. Their drinks arrived a few
moments later. Seated across a small table from each other in one corner, Mason
sipped his drink then asked, ‘Now then, what was it you wanted to know?’

‘I was wondering if you might have any idea
what brought on the heart attack that killed my aunt?’ David asked.

‘That’s easy,’ Mason said. ‘It was an
epileptic seizure.’

‘Epileptic seizure?’ David repeated
incredulously. ‘But the death certificate just said she died from a heat
attack.’

‘I don’t know where you got that idea
from,’ Mason said confidently. ‘I wrote out and signed the death certificate
myself, and it most definitely stated the cause of death to be cardiac failure
following a severe attack of grand-mal epilepsy. I remember it distinctly.’

‘But my aunt didn’t suffer from epilepsy,’
David insisted. ‘As far as I know, she’d never had a day’s illness in her
life.’

‘Nonsense,’ Mason scoffed. ‘Sir Ross
himself told me she had a long history of severe epilepsy, that it ran in her
family, and that her brother had died during an attack just the year before.’

‘Her brother,’ David said emphatically,
‘was my father, and I can guarantee you he was not an epileptic and that it
does not run in his family.’

Mason looked dazed and confused for a
moment, then asked, ‘But what possible reason could Sir Ross have had for lying
about it? The lady was definitely suffering convulsive seizures, I witnessed
one of them myself!’

‘What were the seizures like?’ David asked.

‘The onset of the attack I saw was signaled
by screaming followed by a loss of consciousness. She stopped breathing and her
entire body was gripped by a spastic muscular contraction, which made her face
livid and her back arch. After that, her back muscles contracted and relaxed so
violently that we were forced to pin her down to stop her injuring herself.
When the convulsion finally subsided, she was exhausted and slept heavily.’