The Bone Garden (19 page)

When they arrived at the pub, they chose to enter via the door marked ‘Lounge’ and bagged the only vacant table. Things were
looking up at last.

‘What did you think of our rough diamond, Les Cumbernold?’ asked Heffernan twenty minutes later, his mouth full of Yorkshire
pudding.

‘Well, he didn’t like Willerby. But I don’t know that I see him as a murderer: if he did resort to violence, I’d expect a
good old-fashioned punch-up would be more his style.’

‘I tend to agree with you, Wes.’ Heffernan took a mouthful of roast potato and chewed for a while, deep in thought.

‘Pity we didn’t find anything at Willerby’s house to link him with the caravan murder. Mind you, if there had been a weapon
or any bloodstained clothing there, he’d had plenty of time to get rid of it. Has anyone spoken to the man Willerby worked
with, the one who recommended him for the cricket team?’

‘Yes. He’s a partner in the firm but he claims he never mixed with Willerby socially, even though he lives in the next village.
He wasn’t playing yesterday and he has a cast-iron alibi. He’s away for the weekend but we managed to get in touch with him.
He’s spending the weekend with his daughter and son-in-law up in Somerset. The son-in-law’s a vicar and he confirms his story.’

‘Sounds like we can cross him off our list, then,’ said Wesley, eating somewhat more slowly than the boss. ‘But I think we
should arrange to have Willerby’s office in Tradmouth searched. He might have decided to keep anything incriminating well
away from home. We’ll see to that tomorrow morning.’

‘I’ve been thinking about this John Jones, if that was his real name,’ said Heffernan, his knife poised to attack a particularly
succulent slice of roast beef. ‘What did the murderer do with this white T-shirt he was wearing?’

‘When Billy Wheeler saw Willerby coming out of the dead man’s caravan, was he carrying anything?’

‘We asked him that but he said he didn’t think so. Of course, there was nothing to stop Willerby going back later to get rid
of the evidence, I suppose.’

‘And then there’s the darkroom in Willerby’s house with no sign
of any photographs. It’s strange, isn’t it. The T-shirt and the photographs: things you’d expect to have been there which
weren’t,’ Wesley mused, pushing a sprout around his plate.

‘Come on, Wes, eat up. There’s apple pie for pudding,’ said Gerry Heffernan, patting his substantial stomach.

Wesley sighed. If only everything in life was as predictable as his boss’s appetite.

Half an hour later they strolled back up the long driveway to the Earlsacre Hall stable block. Even on a Sunday work was continuing
on the hall and gardens. Men in hard hats were walking confidently around the scaffolding that clung to the hall’s ancient
stone walls.

Wesley felt pleasantly full after his large meal, more substantial than his usual Sunday fare of spaghetti bolognaise. He
knew that he should be checking through statements to see if there were any promising new lines of inquiry to be pursued,
but instead he found himself thinking of Neil. Considering they were now working from the same building, they had seen very
little of each other. But perhaps that was down to Neil’s new love interest.

But no sooner did this thought flit through his mind than the man himself appeared around the corner, carrying a couple of
old books.

‘Wes. I wondered how long it would be before you turned up. You can’t move for police around here, and it used to be such
a nice place.’

‘How’s it going?’

‘Okay,’ Neil replied with a secretive smile. ‘Fine.’

‘I was wondering if you’d found out any more about those skeletons yet.’

‘As a matter of fact I have,’ Neil said tantalisingly. ‘Claire’s found loads of stuff about the estate – books, letters, maps,
accounts books, all sorts. One of the books was some kind of record of all the work that was done in the garden. I think we
can safely say I’ve found out who our murderer was – of the girl who was buried alive at least.’ He allowed himself a self-satisfied
grin. It wasn’t often he was able to beat Wesley in the detection stakes.

‘Congratulations,’ said Wesley. ‘Feel like giving us a hand next door?’

‘No way I’m ever joining the forces of oppression.’ Neil grinned. ‘Don’t you want to know who the murderer was, then? Don’t
tell me I’ve gone to all this trouble for nothing.’

‘Come on, then. Who was it?’

‘The lord of the manor. Richard Lantrist. You know the girl was buried under that stone slab? Well, Richard Lantrist gave
the order for the slab to be put in place first thing in the morning on 4 July 1701. He ordered the men to get up early and
paid them a penny each to do the job quickly. What was the rush if he didn’t want to cover up his crimes … literally?’

‘And the other skeleton? The man buried underneath?’

‘That’ll be one he killed earlier. I reckon I’ve cracked it – open-and-shut case. I’ve found the murderer and the actual date
of the murder. That’s better than your lot usually do.’ He paused, and his expression became serious. ‘How are you doing with
this murder at the cricket match? Any clues?’

‘We’re pursuing inquiries,’ said Wesley with a non-committal smile. ‘How’s Claire?’

Neil shuffled his feet. ‘Fine. Why?’

Wesley had expected gushing enthusiasm, but somehow Neil sounded wary. ‘Pam’s been asking when she’s going to meet her.’

‘Er, you’ll probably see her around here some time.’

‘Everything’s all right, isn’t it?’ For someone who was swearing undying love not twenty-four hours before, Neil was being
very cagey.

‘Yeah. Everything’s fine,’ he answered. Lying had never been one of Neil’s talents and Wesley knew that something was wrong.
‘Er, this Brian Willerby, the bloke who got killed … what was he like? I mean, what did he do and all that?’

‘As far as we know he was a respectable provincial solicitor but …’ Wesley stopped, not wishing to give too much away. ‘Why
do you ask?’

‘Nothing. No reason.’ Neil turned to go. ‘Might see you later, then.’

Wesley watched him walk into his office. He had been his usual ebullient self until the subject of the murder came up. Neil
was worried about something, perhaps something to do with Brian Willerby. He had no connection with the dead man but something
was wrong. And Wesley resolved to find out what it was.

In the few grey minutes between dusk and dark, the figure crept across the cricket pavilion’s wooden veranda and peeped through
the windows which were protected from flying balls by rusty wire mesh.

Last time there had been people. Young Jake Weston and that poet woman, the one who had been in the woods. But tonight the
pavilion was still and deserted.

The key turned sweetly in the lock and the figure pushed the door open and stepped inside. Now was the time.

I have taken my leave of Sir Richard, gladly I may add. Yet I was heartily sorry to leave her ladyship, who did beg me to
remain. I vowed to return … yet I doubt I shall visit Earlsacre again.

I paid my last call to the King’s Head, where I inquired further of the maidservant Jinny Cartwright. Such tales I heard.
Jinny, it seems, was a bright, inquisitive girl. Some said Sir Richard satisfied his lust upon her and did kill her to ensure
her silence. Others said she fled the attentions of the gardener there and did drown in the water garden. Not one mentioned
a soldier.

I left the village of Earlsacre with a heavy heart, certain that the girl had come to a bad end.

From Jacob Finsbury’s Account of His Travels around the Houses of England, 1703

Monday morning brought rain – or drizzle to be more precise. It fell in gossamer sheets over the hilly landscape, turning
the greens and golds of the September fields to shades of grey.

But in spite of the disagreeable weather Wesley was glad to get out of the house. Pam was returning to work on Wednesday after
the long months of her maternity leave, and she was starting to panic about her workload and the logistics of leaving Michael
with his childminder each morning. When she began rushing back and forth with piles of paperwork, and searching through files
straight after breakfast, he thought it best to leave her to it.

When he arrived at Earlsacre he found Gerry Heffernan sifting through mountains of statements and reports. He looked up as
Wesley entered the room. ‘Just the man I wanted to see,’ he shouted, making all the officers working at their respective desks
look up.

‘There’s been an incident. Martin Samuels came over first thing and told me that the cricket pavilion was broken into last
night. A couple of garden statues were nicked. They’re worth a bit, apparently. He was storing them in there ’cause he thought
they’d be safe with all the construction work going on. Just shows how wrong you can be.’

‘I noticed those statues when I was getting changed for the cricket match. I thought they looked a bit out of place. How did
the thieves get in?’

‘Broke a window … or at least that was what we were meant to think. Only the window was broken from the inside to make it
look like a break-in. Which means that whoever did it might have had a key.’

Wesley stood there for a few moments, weighing up the implications of Heffernan’s news. ‘Do you think it’s got anything to
do with our murders?’ he asked.

‘The statues were worth a couple of thousand each, Samuels reckons. Worth killing for?’

‘People have been killed for less,’ said Wesley.

Heffernan sighed. ‘I suppose we’d better get over to Tradmouth, see if Brian Willerby was hiding anything in that office of
his – stashes of cocaine inside the photocopier, dismembered corpses in the filing cabinet, that sort of thing.’ He took a
swig from his cup and began to push the files around his desk in a token display of industry. His hands came to rest on the
blurred photograph faxed through from the police up in Chipping Campden. He held it up and squinted at it. ‘Do you reckon
that could be our John Jones, Wes? The more I look at it the more I think that it doesn’t half look like him.’

‘We could always get someone down to try and identify the body,’ Wesley suggested tentatively.

‘That might not be a bad idea. In the meantime we’ll ask the police up there to send us a better picture and a few more details.’
Heffernan thought for a few seconds, then took a newspaper cutting swathed in a plastic folder out of his drawer. ‘It mentions
a murder in the Cotswolds on this page that we found under the mattress, you know. A woman was murdered in Moreton-in-Marsh.
That’s near Chipping Campden, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Nice part of the world. I suppose there could be a connection: I’ll ask the police there to send us some details.’

Heffernan pushed another piece of paper at Wesley. ‘This arrived
from Colin Bowman first thing. He’s been examining Brian Willerby’s head wound again and trying some experiments. He definitely
thinks it’s caused by a cricket ball but he can’t get enough force just striking an object with a ball in his hand to cause
that severity of fracture. The ball clearly had more momentum, as if it had been bowled at speed. Which brings us back to
the ultra-accurate demon fast bowler theory which, let’s face it, doesn’t really hold water as far as the Earlsacre team are
concerned. Don’t forget, I saw them in action.’

Wesley sat back and played idly with a paper-clip. ‘So we’ve got two murders: one unfathomable and one impossible. Not forgetting
a theft which may or may not be connected.’

‘That’s just about it, Wes. Where do we go from here?’

Before Wesley could answer, Steve Carstairs strutted across the office to Heffernan’s desk. ‘Report’s just come in, sir. There’s
been a break-in at Blake, Willerby and Johns, the solicitors. Nothing much taken, but I thought you ought to know.’

‘Thanks, Steve. We’ll get over there,’ said Wesley, retrieving his jacket from the back of his chair. Steve answered with
a resentful grunt. He had been somewhat subdued since the news of Wesley’s promotion had come through.

‘All go, isn’t it? It never rains but it buckets it down,’ Heffernan mumbled under his breath.

‘Do you think it’s a coincidence?’ asked Gerry Heffernan as they stood outside the glass door than led to the offices of Blake,
Willerby and Johns. The ground floor of the building was occupied by the Morbay and District Building Society, garishly decorated
with bright posters to lure in the unwilling investor.

‘Believing in coincidence is like believing in Father Christmas: nice idea but …’

‘My thoughts exactly, Wes. After you.’

Wesley pushed open the etched glass door that bore the name of the firm in bold letters, and the two men climbed the grey-carpeted
stairs leading up to the office. They were greeted by a young receptionist who introduced herself as Imogen. She had dyed
scarlet hair, a ring through her nose and a calm, otherworldly manner.

‘Mrs Potter discovered the break-in when she arrived first thing this morning. They’d got in through the loo window. I suppose
it’s quite vulnerable really, being next to the fire escape at the back. They
went in all the offices but they only made a mess in Mr Willerby’s. I’ve made sure nobody’s touched anything, don’t worry.
The fingerprint people are in there now.’ Imogen smiled, suddenly more professional. ‘What have we done to deserve a couple
of inspectors? When my flat was broken into I only got a constable. But I suppose with poor Mr Willerby …’

Wesley nodded. In spite of first impressions, he sensed that there was no pulling any wool over this young woman’s eyes. ‘I
wonder if there’s somewhere we could have a word in private?’ he said, glancing at Gerry Heffernan, who still had his eyes
fixed on Imogen’s scarlet hair. Heffernan nodded his approval.

‘Of course,’ answered Imogen. ‘We can use Mr Johns’ office. He’s been away at his daughter’s for the weekend and he’s not
back until this afternoon.’ She led them into a functional office, and Wesley found himself wondering what Willerby’s domain
was like. After the fingerprint officers had finished their work, he would find out.