The Armada Boy (36 page)

'Those old papers... don't know what
you see in 'em myself. I prefer something more juicy.' He indicated the young
lady, sadly devoid of garments, who stared out. blank-eyed, from the newspaper.

'Chacun a son
gout
,' muttered
Wesley, returning his attention to the Reverend Tracey's account of the events
of 1588. He made a mental note lo ask Rachel if he was any relation... but not
now.
She was busy.

The story that unfolded as Wesley
turned the pages began with an account of how the brave villagers of Bereton
had 'captured and executed divers Spaniards of the ship the
San Miguel
wrecked off the sands'. It
seemed that nobody questioned the rights and
wrongs of the case. They were Spanish, enemies of the Queen and the Protestant
faith, therefore they were rounded up, taken to the ruined chantry chapel just
outside the village and cudgelled to death, their hands bound behind their
backs. Rough justice ... if
it could be called justice. The bloodlust of a mob does not display the most
appealing side of human nature.

One Spaniard, however, a lad of
sixteen or seventeen, was found injured near the beach and sheltered by a
Master Wheeler, a well-known recusant often fined for not attending church and suspected
by his neighbours, the Mallindales, of being Roman Catholic. In those days that
meant that Wheeler's loyalty to Crown and country was assumed to be dodgy, to
say the least.
There was even talk of 'divers Roman priests' seen visiting the Wheelers' farm
'most secretly'.

Reading the account, Wesley could
almost feel the claustrophobic atmosphere of the village and its hatreds,
suspicions and narrow horizons. The Reverend Tracey, probably the only educated
man in the place, seemed to be the sole possessor of common sense and reason.
In his account he claimed to have remonstrated with the villagers about their
unchristian attitudes and their 'lack of brotherly love one with another'. Too
right,
thought Wesley. The Reverend also had a go at his flock for stealing from the
wreck of the San Miguel and pocketing the possessions of their Spanish
prisoners. He accused Master Mallindale of helping himself to 'a dagger of fine
gold' belonging to one of the captured officers. The Reverend Tracey couldn't have
been a popular man.

He read on, and came to the account
of the murder of one Alice Vigers - the village beauty, by all accounts. Aged
just sixteen, she was found raped and stabbed up near the old chantry. It
occurred to Wesley that the chantry had seen more than its share of bloodshed
.. . and other things. If the courting couples of wartime and the present day
had known its history, would they have been so ready to frolic in the place
after dark? Sex and death ... Bereton chantry had seen it all.

The body of Alice Vigers lay in the
undergrowth surrounding the chapel for several days before she was found during
a search organised by the villagers. Matthew Mallindale, the good citizen, came
forward to testify that he had seen a youth 'of Spanish appearance' up near the
chantry with blood on his clothing and hands.

This was as far as Wesley got before
he was interrupted by the inspector's return. He pushed the papers to one side.

'How did you get on with Wayne
Restorick?"

"No problem. He found the body,
pinched the lighter... that's it. really.'

'I thought there might be something
else . .. something he wasn't telling us.' Rachel spoke quietly but decisively.

'What makes you think that?'

She shook her head. 'I don't know,
sir... just a feeling."

'Female intuition.' Steve mumbled,
looking up from the forensic report he had hastily placed on top of his
newspaper.
Rachel gave him a cold stare.

'What do you reckon we should do.
then. Rach?' said Heffernan. 'Bring him in?'

'That might be counterproductive,
sir. If he's frightened he won't talk at all. And there's Annie to consider.'

The phone rang. Wesley picked it up.
When he put the receiver down his face was solemn. 'Nigel Glanville died an
hour ago ...massive internal injuries.'

There were few seconds of silence. Heffernan
spoke first. 'Aunty won't be too upset ... I'd say it'd be a weight off her mind.
Does she know yet?'

'They didn't say.'

'I wanted to go down to the Clearview,
have a ferret around. We'll tell her the sad news... if the hospital haven't
already been in touch.' He looked at the unusual set of papers on Wesley's desk,
hardly standard police forms. 'What have you got there,
Wes?'

'The vicar brought them over...
photocopies of some papers he found in the church safe.'

'Have you read them?'

'Halfway through. I thought that in
view of Ms Ferrars's insistence that the Armada boy has something to do with
this case...'

Heffernan perched himself on the
edge of a desk. 'Come on, then, Wes ... read 'em out.'

Wesley reached for the papers, embarrassed.
'They're difficult to read, sir.. - and the language is pretty archaic.'

'Is there much of it?'

'Not that much.'

'Go on, then.'

Wesley gave a quick resume of the
story so far, then, studying the text carefully, began to read.

'I shall set
forth the events which led to this present case of sanctuary. Master
Mallindale, having borne witness against the young Spaniard, caused the men of
the
village to search diligently for the lad. It was suspected that Master Wheeler
did shelter him and the men did search the Wheelers' farm under the guidance of
the constable. The lad was not found then but on the morrow was found stabbed
to death upon the ground of the chantry chapel, resting upon the graves of his
comrades.'

Heffernan's face was a picture of
concentration as he tried to follow just who was murdering whom. 'Go on, Wes,'
he prompted.

Wesley continued.

 
'The following morn. Master Vigers did come to
me at the church. He was in much distress. His wife, he did say, had killed a man
... the young Spaniard who did defile
and kill her daughter, Alice. She had gone to the chantry in great distress to
the place where her daughter had died and found the young man praying at the
graves of his shipmates. When she had killed the boy she did run away towards
the shore saying she
would drown herself in her sorrow.'

'Hang on. Wes. So this Spanish lad
is hidden by this Catholic farmer ... he rapes and murders a local lass then
her mum finds him and kills him in revenge?'

"That's about it. sir. There's
not much more ... shall I go on?' Heffernan nodded eagerly.

Wesley cleared his throat.

'A se'night
later I was sore amazed to find Master Mallindale in my church weeping before
the altar. He did confess to me that he had defiled and murdered Alice Vigers
for whom he had harboured a great lust these two years since she became a
woman. He did kill her to stop her screams with the fine dagger he had stole
from a Spanish officer and he had buried the weapon in the newly dug earth of
the chantry where the Spaniards had their resting place.'

Wesley looked up. 'Neil found a dagger buried above the graves... probably
Spanish. It fits ... that was the murder weapon.'

'Go on.' said Heffernan. impatient.
'What happened next?'

'He knew his neighbour. Master
Wheeler, was hiding a young Spaniard so he did bear false witness against the
lad. Mistress Vigers, her grief bringing her close to madness, happened upon the
lad as he prayed at the graves of his countrymen and she did
stab the unfortunate lad to death, thinking he had cruelly murdered her only
daughter. Master Mallindale, after his confession and fearing for his immortal
soul, claimed sanctuary in the church and did swear to observe all the
conditions of the same."

Heffernan whistled under his breath.
'There's something familiar about this story, Wes.'

Wesley looked at his boss
thoughtfully.

'Well, I've not heard it before.'
said Steve Carstairs. who'd been listening intently. 'It's a new one on me.'

The inspector stood up. Right, Wes,
let's get down to the Clearview and sort this thing out ... get a few brownie
points from the super."

They gathered the American veterans
in the hotel lounge... those who were there. Some had gone off sightseeing, but
Heffernan said that this didn't matter: there were enough there for what he had
in mind.

Sally Johnson sat in the corner,
holding firmly on to her husband's hand. Their crisis seemed to be over. Todd
Weringer and Dorinda Openheim sat, straight-backed, next to each other, her
fingers hovering over his arm: the novelty of their relationship hadn't yet
worn off.
 
The colonel and Litton
Boratski sat expectantly in their respective armchairs: only those with a clear
conscience. Heffernan thought, could have looked so effortlessly
relaxed in the face of police questioning. Three other veterans, sporting
baseball caps and brightly clad bellies which overhung their trousers, sat back,
staring at the policemen with bovine patience. The two coiffeured wives who sat
with them looked
more uneasy.

'Thank you all for being so
patient.' Heffernan began humbly. 'I know it's been hard on you missing out on
London, but Sergeant Peterson here lived there for years and couldn't wait to get
out. The scenery's better down here, isn't it. Sergeant?'

Wesley smiled and nodded. Heffernan
looked round, expecting an indulgent titter from his audience, but the faces
around him bore expressions of unanimous solemnity.

He continued, 'I know you lot -
ladies excepted, of course - were here in the war. I wonder if any of you
remember an English sailor home on leave getting shot while he was out poaching
rabbits in Bereton."

The colonel spoke up loud and clear.
'Sure, I remember. They tried to pin it on one of our guys ... had a Limey
police inspector over. Some sonofabitch said it was one of our men. I told him
it wasn't and to get his ass out of here ... we had a war to win.'

'How could you be so sure it wasn't
one of your men?"

'It sounded like Norm Openheim from
the description. I remember it well... made me laugh.'

"Why?'

'All the guys, including Norm, were
involved in an exercise on the morning the man was shot. They were crammed into
tanks and landing craft... wading through seawater and crawling through barbed
wire. When the guy said that sailor was shot we were right in the middle of the
whole damned shooting match. Nobody would have been up at the village, I can
promise you that, Inspector. All our personnel were present and accounted
for."

'And you told the English police
this?'

Sure ... whether they chose to believe
it or not was up to them. Or they could save themselves a job and blame it on
the damned Yankees."

Heffernan studied his feet. Closing
the case by blaming it on an unknown member of the force that got all the best
food, beer and girls must have been a great temptation. The officer who made that
decision was probably long dead ... no chance of him being faced with his
negligence now.

'So this witness must have
lied?"

'You said it. Inspector."

'Would the locals have known that an
American soldier couldn't have done it?'

The colonel shrugged his large
shoulders. 'Possibly not. You've got to remember how things were back then ...
everything top secret. I guess the local gossips would have still pinned the
thing on one of us . .. especially if the police weren't saying any different'