The Bone Garden (24 page)

Wesley sighed. ‘We’ll still have to go through the motions, I suppose.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Are we sure this garden
wasn’t some sort of family burial ground?’

‘There’s no record of it. The family vault’s in the village church,’ said Claire, who was hovering at the edge of the group.
Wesley looked round at her and smiled. This was his first encounter with her face to face. She returned the smile nervously.

‘So what date are we looking at for this building?’ Wesley asked nobody in particular.

‘According to the garden accounts the shell grotto was built in May 1702,’ said Claire. ‘I’ve just been looking it up for
Neil,’ she added by way of explanation, giving Neil a shy glance.

‘So that’s the probable date of the burial? May 1702? The body was buried and then the grotto built on top of it?’

‘More evidence against the wicked Sir Richard,’ said Neil. ‘He’s the only one who had the opportunity to bury all three without
anyone asking too many questions.’

‘Or someone like a head gardener,’ suggested Claire. ‘That’s always a possibility.’

Neil looked sceptical. ‘I’ve read that book you lent me about Jacob Finsbury’s visit. From Finsbury’s comments I’d say this
Sir Richard sounded very iffy indeed. In those days if you had enough money and power you could get away with murder.’

But Neil’s musings on the abuses of privilege were interrupted by Gerry Heffernan, picking his way clumsily over the spoil
heaps and trenches. ‘I’ve heard there’s another body.’ He sounded worried, fearing an increase in his workload. ‘Is Colin
Bowman on his way?’

‘It looks like another old one,’ said Wesley calmly. ‘No need to panic. It’s nothing for us to worry about.’

‘Be that as it may, it still takes up our valuable time.’ He looked at Wesley in mock despair. ‘Then I find my sergeant –
sorry, acting inspector – lurking around trenches dying to get his mitts on a trowel to dig something up. Don’t think I don’t
know, Wesley, I can read you like a book.’

He drew Wesley to one side, away from the trench. ‘Tell you what,’ he said in a loud whisper. ‘You hang round here and wait
for Colin and I might go and see that poet woman, Jacintha Hervey.’

Wesley glanced at Claire. ‘Jacintha’s not the only long-haired woman around here.’

‘I know, Wes. Maybe you can have a tactful word with Neil’s young lady when you get the chance, but I think it’s about time
we had a word with Jacintha anyway.’ He leaned towards Wesley confidentially. ‘Let’s hope I escape with my virtue intact,
eh?’

‘If I hear a scream I’ll come and rescue you,’ answered Wesley, straight-faced.

As Heffernan picked his way back across the rough terrain towards the gatehouse, there was a mumble of cautious excitement
from Jake, who was down in the trench scraping away at the bare, mushroom-coloured bones. Wesley scampered back to the side
of the trench and looked down. There in the earth lay the unmistakable glint of gold.

‘Coins. Gold sovereigns,’ announced an excited Jake. ‘Just by the waist. It looks as if he was carrying a purse or pouch of
some kind at his belt. And there’s a piece of rusted metal here; could be a belt buckle.’

Neil stepped carefully into the trench and squatted beside him. He brushed the last residues of clinging soil off the mystery
object. ‘It looks like a buckle all right.’ He began to scrape away at the skeleton’s chest, where the ribs lay like tramlines,
half exposed against the soil.

As he dispersed the veil of earth, he noticed that something round and metallic, something just a little larger than an egg,
was wedged between two of the ribs on the left-hand side, just above where the heart would have beaten in life. Wesley watched
from the top of the trench, breath held, wishing he was down there digging.

Neil brushed the soil from the object and, once it was free, lifted it out with careful fingers. Claire, Matt and Jane, watching
with Wesley, stood quite still, and Jake stopped work and stared.

‘It’s a pocket watch,’ said Neil, awed. ‘Might be silver.’ The watch was attached to a chain. Neil lifted up the blackened
object and held it cradled in his palm for everyone to see. The glass had cracked long ago and the white enamelled face was
filthy and discoloured. The hands were most likely still resting somewhere in the earth.

‘Is there any inscription?’ asked Claire.

Neil, who hadn’t had inscriptions on his mind, examined the watch gently and found what looked like an engraved pattern on
the back. He shook his head.

‘Sometimes they opened up,’ suggested Wesley. ‘Is there a catch?’

Neil searched the object and found a tiny catch at the side. He pressed it tentatively, fearful of damaging the delicate mechanism.
To his relief the back opened stiffly. He stared down at the inside of the back of the case. ‘There seems to be some sort
of inscription but I can’t make it out.’

Wesley produced a clean white handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Here, clean it up a bit.’

Neil began to rub gently at the tarnished metal and soon the lettering grew just clear enough to read. He squinted down, trying
to angle it towards the light, and began to read slowly. ‘ “Presented to Captain Jonah Parry by the officers of the
Merry Venture
. June 1701”. It looks like he was a seafaring man.’

‘Then I wonder how he ended up here,’ said Wesley as Colin Bowman appeared at the gatehouse with a cheery wave.

Gerry Heffernan had decided to take Rachel with him to see Jacintha Hervey. What he’d heard about Jacintha made him suspect
that he might be in need of a chaperone. She was what Steve Carstairs would have referred to as ‘a man-eater’ … and Heffernan
had no desire to be on anyone’s menu.

They found her in her lair. The first part of Earlsacre Hall to be made habitable was the wing that had housed the kitchens
and the senior servants’ rooms. Distant sounds of drilling and hammering held the promise that the rest of the ground floor
would soon be in use.

Jacintha had set herself up in what had been the housekeeper’s parlour. The once austere room was now decorated with large
posters depicting the more romantic excesses of the Pre-Raphaelite painters. Jacintha’s desk was heaped with notebooks. The
bin was full of scrunched-up paper, rejected poems perhaps.

‘What exactly does a poet in residence do?’ asked Heffernan naïvely as he sat down in an armchair covered by a bright Indian
print throw.

‘My brief is to record the awakening of the Earlsacre Hall estate after its long years of sleep and neglect. To chronicle
the work in a creative rather than a factual way.’

‘Er, yeah,’ said Heffernan. He’d stick to facts from now on. Rachel had perched herself on a stool near by and was wearing
an expression of puzzled disapproval.

‘Had you ever met Brian Willerby, the man who was found dead
after the cricket match on Saturday?’ he asked, getting straight to the point.

‘No, our paths never crossed. In fact I’ve only just learned that he was Martin Samuels’ brother-in-law. Small world, isn’t
it.’ Jacintha sounded as if she were discussing some light-hearted social event.

‘Has Mr Samuels ever mentioned Willerby?’

‘Not in my hearing. But I do have a friend – or I suppose I should call her an acquaintance – who worked for him. She said
he was a strange little man; a bit of a creep really.’

‘What’s the name of this acquaintance?’ asked Heffernan, reaching for his notebook.

‘Her name’s Imogen. She works as a receptionist in the solicitors’ where he worked. We’re in the same writers’ circle.’

Heffernan put his notebook down on his knee. He remembered Imogen all right: creator of Gothic horror novels and tales of
lecherous employers. ‘So you never actually met Willerby yourself?’

Jacintha shook her head. ‘As I said, I only made his acquaintance once he was well and truly dead.’

‘And Jake Weston, your, er … friend. Did he know Willerby?’

‘I don’t think so. We didn’t know who it was when we saw the body. We knew he was one of the cricket team because of his clothes
but …’

‘And when you and Jake Weston were, er … in the woods, did you hear or see anything strange?’

‘I’ve been asked all this already,’ she said, exasperated. ‘No, I didn’t, and neither did Jake. We had other things on our
minds.’

‘Where were you during the tea interval, around three o’clock?’

She thought for a while. ‘I was here in my office. Then I decided to stroll along to the cricket pitch.’ She smiled to herself.
‘I wanted to see if there was anyone I knew down there.’

‘And you found Jake?’

‘That’s right. I wanted a word with Charles Pitaway but he was talking to that other detective; the rather dishy young black
one; Neil Watson’s friend.’

‘So you made do with Jake?’ Heffernan noticed that Rachel’s lips were pressed together disapprovingly.

‘You could say that.’ Jacintha gave a feline smile. ‘I found him more than adequate, I might add.’

‘And you went into the woods straight away?’ asked Heffernan, eager to get the interview back on track.

‘I told the police all this when the body was found. We came back here for a coffee. Then Jake went to do a bit more digging
in the water garden. We met up again at about five-thirty and went for a walk in the woods. One thing led to another and …’

‘I think we get the picture,’ Heffernan said quickly before she began to go into detail. ‘The pathologist reckons that Willerby
probably died during the tea interval, and he’s come up with something rather interesting. There’s every indication that he
died where he was found and that he had had a cricket ball bowled at his head several times. Now if someone was chucking a
cricket ball at me I think I’d make a bit of a noise. Please think again. On your travels did you see or hear anything unusual?’

‘Sorry, Inspector. I can’t help you. I didn’t go near the trees during the tea interval.’

‘So you’re, er … friendly with another gentleman who works here.’ He looked down at his notebook. ‘Charles Pitaway.’

‘So?’ Rachel thought she could detect a certain pride in her voice. ‘I don’t believe in commitment, Inspector.
Carpe diem
, that’s my motto.’

‘Seize the day. Aye.’

‘You know Latin, Inspector?’

Heffernan flushed, fearful that he was getting out of his depth. ‘No. But I know a man who does,’ he replied, giving Rachel
a meaningful grin. He turned back to Jacintha, who was watching him like a predatory cat. ‘Has Charles Pitaway ever mentioned
Brian Willerby?’

‘He must have met him because Willerby did some legal work for the estate. Charles was the last owner, you see. But Charles
has never mentioned him to me. I shouldn’t imagine that such an insignificant little man would be of much interest to him.’

‘How do you know he was insignificant if you’d never met him?’ asked Rachel quickly.

Jacintha began to scribble in one of her notebooks nervously. ‘I’m only repeating what I’ve heard.’

Heffernan took a photograph from his pocket: the likeness of John Jones, the man found dead and half naked in the caravan.
‘Have you seen this man before?’

She studied the photograph carefully then shook her head. ‘No. He’s not bad,’ she grinned. ‘Who is he?’

‘He was found dead in a rented caravan up near Bloxham last week. We’re trying to identify him.’

‘Sorry I can’t help you. But I would have remembered if I’d seen him,’ she added significantly.

As Jacintha handed back the picture, the door to her office burst open to reveal Charles Pitaway standing on the threshold,
poised for flight like an athlete on the starting blocks. He seemed relieved when he saw the two police officers installed
in the only available seating. He looked at Rachel and blushed visibly, giving her a nervous half-smile which she returned.

‘Er, sorry. Jacintha, one of the workmen said you were looking for me. He said it was urgent.’ He stepped back into the corridor,
waiting for her.

‘Just one more thing,’ said Gerry Heffernan firmly before Jacintha was distracted. ‘Before the cricket match you were seen
talking to Brian Willerby outside the stable block. What have you got to say about that?’ He sat forward, awaiting an answer.
He suspected that, given half a chance, this woman would give him the runaround – and he wasn’t going to let her.

Jacintha squirmed in her seat. ‘Someone must have made a mistake. I was here in my office before the match. I’ve never even
met Brian Willerby. Someone’s made a mistake,’ she repeated vehemently.

‘Okay, love. That’ll be all for now. But we might want another word.’

Jacintha rose, looking relieved at her sudden release. ‘If you’ve finished I just want a word with Mr Pitaway in private.’

‘Don’t mind us, love,’ Heffernan called out to her disappearing back as she left the room and closed the door behind her.

He nodded at Rachel, who understood immediately what was required. She tiptoed over to the door and pressed her ear to the
wood. She could make out most of the conversation. Jacintha was asking Charles to meet her that evening. She was suggesting
a rendezvous, even hinting at an evening in his flat. But Rachel could sense that he was stalling; the excuses were coming
thick and fast: he had the decorators in; he was meeting an old friend. But Jacintha was not a woman to be put off.

Rachel turned to Heffernan. ‘It would be an act of kindness to put that poor man out of his misery. She’s not taking no for
an answer,’ she whispered.

Heffernan marched over to the door and flung it open. Jacintha jumped but Charles looked relieved. ‘Mr Pitaway. I wonder if
we could have a quick word in here.’

‘Certainly, Chief Inspector,’ he said, smiling openly. ‘But I’ve already told the police everything I know.’

‘If we could use your office for a couple of minutes, Ms Hervey?’

Jacintha nodded graciously, grabbed one of her notebooks and made herself scarce.

‘You realise you’ll probably be responsible for another of her poems,’ Charles whispered to Rachel as he sat down.

Their eyes met and she returned his smile. ‘I hope not. I shouldn’t like that on my conscience.’