The Bone Garden (29 page)

‘It was kept in the pavilion in case anyone needed to use it, often on full display on top of the lockers, so anyone could
have known it was there.’

‘And who has access to the pavilion?’

‘There are several keys. Martin Samuels has one because he was storing those statues in there. Les Cumbernold had one, but
with the statues there it was a bit like letting a fox have the key to the chicken coop. The captain and a few other members
of the team had keys – and a man from the village who mows the cricket field. And Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all by the sound
of it. Martin Samuels leaves his on a hook in the stable block, so anyone who’s connected with the restoration project can
help themselves. If someone saw that mallet, even by looking through the pavilion window, and
fancied it as an unusual murder weapon, it wouldn’t be hard to pinch – or put back.’

‘Did anyone see it in the pavilion when they were getting ready for the cricket match?’

‘Well, did they? Come on, Wes, you were there.’

‘It was pretty packed in there. I certainly didn’t notice the mallet.’

‘So either it had already walked by then or someone managed to pinch it in the general pre-match confusion.’

‘Either option’s possible.’

‘Then we have this statement.’ Heffernan removed a document carefully from the file he was holding. ‘A certain Mr Jake Weston
was having a bit of how’s your father in the pavilion last Thursday night with a certain Ms Jacintha Hervey, and in both their
statements it says that they heard someone hanging round the pavilion, trying the door. I reckon it was either Les Cumbernold
trying his luck or it was someone after the mallet.’

‘But was the mallet there then?’

‘Neither of them can remember. Shame. I wish people would be more observant; it’d make our lives a lot easier. So what have
we got, Wes?’

‘Still no firm ID on John Jones. He rang someone on the night before he died, said he wanted to talk and gave directions to
the caravan site. His killer stripped him of his T-shirt which had a coat of arms with foreign writing underneath. Could have
been Latin … a college crest perhaps? And we didn’t find any other ID so the killer might have taken that as well. Brian Willerby
is the only person to have been seen with him, possibly quarrelling. There’s an Earlsacre connection somewhere – Jones asks
about it at the caravan site and there’s that cutting under his mattress. Then we come to Willerby. His office is broken into
and a file on Earlsacre pinched. He has a taste for pretty girls and he doesn’t mind paying for their services – he also likes
taking photographs of them in compromising situations.’

‘That’s a very tactful way of putting it, Wes. Carry on.’

‘He was killed with a mallet most people around Earlsacre would have had access to. And he was either followed into the wood
by his killer or he arranged to meet him or her there during the tea interval. As for motive …’

‘Claire O’Farrell has a motive. His wife maybe; or her brother. Les Cumbernold, of course. But I can’t think of anyone else
at the
moment.’ Heffernan sighed. ‘What about the caravan murder? Any thoughts on that?’

‘Martin Samuels disappeared from a dinner party on the night Jones died – and he went back to his office just before the tea
interval. Let’s face it, his alibi for the caravan murder stinks.’

‘If he was willing to make the journey to Earlsacre in the middle of the night, why didn’t he just wait until his guests had
left?’

‘Not everyone has your flair for etiquette, sir,’ said Wesley with a straight face.

But Heffernan hadn’t heard him. He was just warming to his theme. ‘If Willerby’s not Jones’ killer, I’d say Samuels is a good
bet.’ A grin spread across his face. ‘Maybe we should ask Forensic to give Samuels’ car a good going-over and all.’

‘Willerby’s car’s as clean as the driven snow. No traces of blood, nothing. And when Forensic looked at the incinerator in
his garden they found no traces of clothing; no buttons or buckles, anything like that, which means that bloodstained clothing
probably wasn’t burned there in spite of what Cumbernold says about early morning bonfires.’

‘So what do you think, Wes?’

‘I’m sure this whole thing is linked with Earlsacre somehow, but apart from that …’

The mobile phone in Wesley’s pocket rang. He fumbled for it and put it to his ear. After a brief conversation he turned to
Gerry Heffernan. ‘That was Colin Bowman. He wants me to pay him a visit at the mortuary.’

‘What about?’

‘I’ve no idea. Let’s hope he’s come up with something new because, let’s face it, we’re not getting very far, are we?’

‘You can say that again,’ answered Gerry Heffernan as Wesley picked his car keys up.

Wesley had omitted to mention that Colin Bowman had asked him to bring Neil along with him to the mortuary. He found his friend
drawing a section of masonry protruding from the earth of the walled garden. Soon they were driving towards Tradmouth. Claire’s
secret was at the forefront of Wesley’s mind, making him feel awkward in Neil’s presence. He remained quiet for most of the
journey, fearing that some unguarded word might lead to an indiscretion, to some involuntary mention of Claire’s past. But
as they
turned on to the main road leading to Tradmouth, with its tantalising glimpses of the sea through gaps in the hedgerows, Neil
broke the silence.

‘You’re not saying much, Wes. Anything wrong? Pam okay?’

Wesley felt relieved that the first words had been spoken. He only hoped that he could keep Claire’s name out of the conversation.
‘Pam’s fine. Back at school tomorrow so she’s panicking a bit, but apart from that …’

‘I’ve not seen much of you at the site. I thought you’d be taking more interest in the dig – especially as your mum’s maiden
name was Lantrist. There can’t be that many Lantrists about, and this one did live in the West Indies.’

‘Are you still suggesting that I’m related to a mass murderer, Neil?’ said Wesley with a dismissive smile that indicated he
didn’t want to take the suggestion too seriously.

‘Perish the thought. But I’ve found out a lot about Richard Lantrist from the letters he wrote to his brother and father.
There are a load of them among the papers. There are even a few he wrote from the West Indies, but I haven’t got around to
reading them yet. The letters I’ve seen are fascinating. He fought for the Duke of Monmouth at Sedgemoor, got himself captured,
then he was tried by the evil Judge Jeffreys at Dorchester assizes. No wonder they were known as the Bloody Assizes: two hundred
people condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered, and eight hundred transported to the West Indies to work as slaves on
the plantations there. Richard Lantrist wrote to his father from a ship that sailed for the West Indies out of Poole. Apparently
he got quite well in with the captain on account of his family connections, so he wasn’t treated too badly, and the captain
agreed to deliver the letter on his return. And you’ll never guess what the captain’s name was.’

‘Jonah Parry?’

‘You knew?’

‘It was a lucky guess,’ said Wesley as they descended the steep hill into the town, relieved that the subject of Richard Lantrist’s
fate was keeping the conversation well away from Claire. ‘So Captain Parry showed Richard kindness and compassion in what
must have been his darkest hour. Then years later he ends up buried under Richard’s newly revamped garden. Richard Lantrist
must have been an ungrateful bastard. Unless something happened in between that we don’t know about yet.’

This speculation kept their minds occupied until they reached the mortuary. Colin Bowman greeted them in his office with his
usual bonhomie and offers of tempting refreshments which they managed to resist.

‘I’ve had a look at your latest skeleton,’ the pathologist said as he led the way to the room that had housed the other Earlsacre
bones. They lay there still on their crisp white sheets, now joined by the earthly remains of Captain Jonah Parry.

Wesley avoided looking at the smallest skeleton, the young girl. Her fate still haunted his thoughts sometimes in the time
between sleeping and waking. But Colin Bowman’s cheery voice banished all ghosts.

‘He’s a man in late middle age, I should say. There’s some evidence in the bone development of an intermittently poor diet
which, if he was a seafaring man, would be explained by the privations of long sea voyages from a fairly early age. He was
a big man, well built. And he was probably killed by a blow to the skull,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘I thought you gentlemen
would like to meet the good captain.’

‘So he was definitely murdered?’

‘I can’t say for certain, but probably. That’s why I thought Wesley would be interested. An early-eighteenth-century serial
killer. Fascinating, don’t you think?’

‘And the evidence all points to one man – the man who owned Earlsacre Hall, Richard Lantrist,’ said Wesley quietly.

‘Sounds like you’ve cracked the case already.’ Bowman looked at his watch. ‘I must leave you to it, gentlemen. Duty calls.
I’ve got a post-mortem in ten minutes so can you see yourselves out?’

‘Where to now?’ asked Neil as the double doors of the mortuary swung shut behind them.

‘That’s a good question,’ answered Wesley. ‘I’ve no idea. Those murders back in 1701 have been easier to solve than the ones
I’m working on now.’

With a sigh he climbed into the driving seat of his car and started the engine.

Steve Carstairs and PC Wallace were walking past the mortuary on their way back to the police station when Steve spotted Wesley
Peterson getting into his car. He had that friend with him, the scruffy archaeologist. Steve hurried on, hoping he hadn’t
been seen, and Wallace quickened his pace to keep up with him.

‘What’s the hurry, Steve? Avoiding someone, are you?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Who is it? A woman?’

‘Mind your own bloody business,’ Steve snapped, crossing the busy road towards the Memorial Park and narrowly avoiding being
hit by a delivery van.

It was a good thing that he didn’t see the man until he was safely on the pavement or there might have been a nasty accident.
He stopped suddenly and Wallace, following behind, almost cannoned into him.

‘See that man?’ he whispered to Wallace. ‘The old bloke there talking to that woman?’

‘Yeah. What about him?’ Wallace stared, puzzled, at the respectable elderly gentleman talking to a well-dressed young woman.
He seemed a little unsteady on his feet and wore a worried expression, as though he’d lost something. The woman looked concerned,
touching his arm comfortingly from time to time. ‘He hardly looks like public enemy number one,’ said Wallace dismissively.
‘Come on, let’s get back to the station.’

‘Hang on,’ snapped Steve. ‘I want a word with him.’

He began to march towards the man at a furious pace. The elderly man turned, saw Steve bearing down on him and began to jog
away, leaving the woman staring, open-mouthed, after him. The man ran on, no sign of unsteadiness or weakness now, just a
calm assessment of the situation he’d found himself in.

‘Stop that man,’ Steve shouted, enjoying the drama. With true British reserve the strollers in the Memorial Park looked the
other way.

Steve pursued his quarry for a while then stopped, breathless, horrified that he was so unfit. It was Wallace who eventually
caught up with the man at the bandstand and led him firmly over to where Steve was getting his breath back.

Steve straightened up and looked the man in the eye. ‘What was wrong with the trains to Manchester? Leaves on the line, was
it? You owe me eighty quid, mate.’ He fumbled in his pocket for his warrant card which he flashed at the captive, who seemed
to have shed twenty years in the past few minutes. ‘You’re nicked, sunshine,’ he pronounced in the time-honoured fashion of
his favourite TV cops.

‘What’s the charge?’ The man had suddenly acquired a northern accent.

Steve thought for a moment. ‘Obtaining money by deception,’ he decided. ‘You were good, I’ll give you that. You had me fooled.’

The man smiled and shook his head, then meekly allowed himself to be led to the police station fifty yards up the street.
As the trio entered though the swing-doors Sergeant Bob Naseby leaned on the reception desk. ‘Afternoon, lads. What have we
here, then?’

‘We’re bringing this suspect in for questioning,’ announced Wallace eagerly.

The suspect himself wasn’t paying much attention. His eyes were fixed on the station notice-board to the right of the front
desk.

Bob nodded sagely. ‘Let me guess. Obtaining money by deception?’

‘That’s the one,’ said Steve. ‘Is there an interview room free?’

But before Bob could reply the suspect spoke with all the authority of an Old Testament prophet. ‘Do you know this man?’ he
boomed, quoting from the poster pinned in the centre of the notice-board. ‘I certainly do. He was kind enough to lend me ten
quid for a meal. Nice chap.’

Steve and Bob Naseby looked at each other. ‘You mean you actually met the man who was found dead in that caravan? You met
John Jones?’ said Steve sceptically.

‘Was that his name? I don’t remember. I meet so many people in, er, my line of work.’

Steve thought for a moment. ‘I wrote my name and address down when I lent you, er …’ He looked at his colleagues, embarrassed,
and didn’t finish the sentence. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’ve got his written down somewhere, is there?’

‘It’s possible. If you’ll allow me back to my hotel room, I’ll have a look through my things.’

‘You’ve got a hotel room?’ said Steve in disbelief.

‘Oh yes. The Majestic in Morbay. I never stay anywhere with less than four stars.’ He looked at Steve with calculation in
his narrow grey eyes. ‘And what do I get in return for all this co-operation?’

‘Don’t push your luck, mate,’ was Steve’s automatic reply.

Barbados, November 1686

Dearest Father

Captain Parry did visit the master today inquiring of me. Master Jackson did give permission for me to write, yet now as I
put pen to paper I am lost for what to say. I labour in the sugar plantations, as does Joseph. Hacking the sugar cane is punishing
work in the heat that calls to my mind the fires of hell itself. Of my fellow labourers, all slaves, many were followers of
Monmouth, a few transported for other misdeeds, and many are African, innocent of any wrongdoing but snatched from their homes
by wicked men who trade for profit, not in goods but in lives. It grieves me sorely to see my fellow men in such servitude,
as it must grieve God. I only wish it were within my power to end this evil trade.

Pray for me, dearest father, that I may have the strength to endure.

Your most loving son, Richard Lantrist