The Flesh Tailor (20 page)

Transcript of recording made by Mrs Mabel Cleary (née Fallon) – Home Counties Library Service Living History Project: Reminiscences
of a wartime evacuee.

Mary was courting. Full of it, she was. Not that I understood half the things she told me – I was too young for that. His
name was John and he lived at the farm next door. He didn’t have to go away because farming was a reserved occupation, you
see. We all had to eat, after all. John was nice and he’d bring round milk and eggs for us. Sometimes there’d be ham or bacon
too and that was a real treat. And besides all that, he used to make us laugh and sometimes he’d do magic tricks for us like
producing pennies from behind our ears. I always looked forward to seeing John.

Charlie followed Miles everywhere like a little dog. I thought Miles would tell him to get lost but he didn’t seem
to mind. And even though I thought it was a bit odd, I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t have much to do with Miles, even though he was always around, and that meant I didn’t see much of Charlie either,
although Belle continued to tease him and call him names. She said he was stupid and that he was a nuisance. I said how sad
it was that his parents had both been killed in the Blitz but she just rolled her eyes and said he’d come to live with her
family and she hated it. I didn’t like Belle much. My mother would have said she was selfish.

Then one day I overheard John telling Mary that there were Germans staying in the village. I was a bit scared at first but
when I met them, I realised I had nothing to worry about. These Germans were nice and they were just like us really.

Wesley felt rather deflated when he returned to the incident room. He’d pinned his hopes on speaking to Mary, the person who
might hold the information he needed to identify the child buried near the paddock, and now he felt the frustration of delay.
However, Peter Haynes had said that she was expected to make a full recovery so it was just a question of patience. But that
was a virtue he felt he didn’t really have time for just then.

‘There’s someone here to see you, sir.’

Wesley looked up and saw Nick Tarnaby standing to attention in front of him.

‘Who is it?’

Nick Tarnaby’s thin lips flickered upwards in a suggestive smirk. ‘Woman. Blonde. Fit. Says she wants to talk to you.’

‘Does this fit blonde woman have a name?’

‘She said you knew her.’

Wesley was about to say that he knew lots of women but he was afraid this might have been misinterpreted.

‘She’s waiting in Reception. Says it’s important.’

Wesley sighed and began to put the papers on his desk into some sort of order. Then he stood up and made his way to the front
desk, wondering who his mysterious visitor could be. As curiosity got the better of him he quickened his pace.

But his heart sank as he pushed open the swing doors leading to Reception and saw Nuala Johns standing there with her back
to him reading a notice warning against leaving valuables in cars.

‘Ms Johns. What can I do for you?’ he said unenthusiastically as she turned to face him.

He saw her eyeing him as a cat eyes a bird, but it could have been his imagination. ‘Well, Detective Inspector Peterson, it
is good to see you. I was wondering if you can tell me any more about these skeletons at Tailors Court.’

She inclined her head to one side expectantly and fluttered her eyelashes. Pulling out all the stops.

‘I’m sorry, Ms Johns, but as I told you at the press conference, I really can’t help you. The bones are still the subject
of various tests and –’

‘But the child’s skeleton’s more recent. Have you identified it yet?’

Wesley stared at her and felt the blood drain from his face. ‘That information hasn’t been released yet. How on earth did
you hear about it?’

She gave him an enigmatic smile. ‘You’re not denying it, then?’

‘Well …’ His mind raced as he wondered how best to handle the question. ‘More bones have been discovered on the site and they
appear to belong to a child. But that’s all I can tell you. They might be hundreds of years old but we won’t be able to confirm
it until they’ve run tests and …’ He decided against mentioning the filling in the child’s tooth, or the remains of the toy
car and the snake buckle. There was still so much more they needed to know before it was all made public.

She took his elbow and led him to the bench where members of the public waited to show their driving licences or to report
missing items. Today, possibly due to an unexpected outbreak of good driving and honesty, it was empty so there was nobody
to overhear what they had to say.

‘I believe you have a degree in archaeology, Inspector … or may I call you Wesley?’ She smiled prettily and he wondered what
she was up to.

‘That’s right.’

‘That’s right you’ve got an archaeology degree or that’s right I can call you Wesley?’ She was positively flirtatious now.
She’d even hitched her tight black skirt up a couple of inches.

‘Both.’ Wesley pretended to look at his watch. ‘I really don’t have much time, Ms Johns. We are in the middle of a murder
enquiry.’

‘Oh, James Dalcott. I take it that’s some sort of revenge killing – I’ve heard about the complaint made against him. Or perhaps
it was a crime of passion? His ex’s boyfriend maybe?’

‘I really can’t comment at this stage.’ She was beginning to irritate him. And worry him. If she started printing all this
conjecture, she could cause no end of trouble.

‘Let’s get back to the skeletons, shall we? You do know about Simon Garchard, I take it?’

‘Who?’ It wasn’t a name that had cropped up during the enquiry and he hoped she wasn’t a few steps ahead of them.

‘Simon Garchard. Physician, necromancer, magician. South Devon’s answer to John Dee.’ She paused and looked him in the eye.
‘You really haven’t heard of him, have you?’

‘Should I have?’

She stood up. ‘Well, if you’re not interested …’

‘Who says I’m not interested? Please. Sit down. Tell me what you know about this Simon Garchard.’ He had heard the name Garchard
before very recently. But he couldn’t remember where. Then it came to him. Esther Jannings had said that a family called Garchard
built Tailors Court.

She hesitated for a few moments then resumed her seat. ‘When I heard about the skeletons and how they might be old, it rang
some bells.’

‘What do you mean?’

She gave him a secretive smile. ‘I’m a local girl. There were various legends – very vague of course – so I thought I’d see
whether there was any truth behind them.’

‘Simon Garchard lived at Tailors Court, am I right?’

She looked rather surprised. ‘How did you know?’

‘Lucky guess.’

‘He was the eldest son of Thomas Garchard who added a couple of fashionable Elizabethan wings to the original medieval house.
When he died Simon inherited the house but his interests didn’t lie in farming or managing the estate. He sold most of the
land off to neighbouring landowners and pursued his dreams.’

‘Which were?’

‘Science. He was a pioneer. Or at least he thought he was. Not that the authorities at the time saw it like that. He was said
to have snatched newly buried bodies from local churchyards and in 1595 he was tried for killing a woman and hanged.’

‘How did he kill this woman?’

She smiled, showing a row of perfect teeth. ‘I’ve got you interested now, haven’t I?’

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘Her name was Annet Raine, described as a maidservant, and he was accused of strangling her then dissecting her body. It
was said he made drawings on the walls at Tailors Court. I don’t know whether they’re still there but …’

‘I know all about the drawings.’

‘How?’

Wesley didn’t answer. ‘So Garchard was what, a physician? A barber surgeon?’

Nuala Johns shook her head. ‘Oh, there’s no suggestion he was qualified as anything. I get the impression he was more of an
enthusiastic amateur. But there were some pretty dark stories going round at the time.’

‘What sort of stories?’

The answer was another enigmatic smile. She was keeping him tantalised, playing him like an expert fisherman plays a trout.

‘This is all very interesting, Ms Johns, but …’

‘I thought with your degree in archaeology you’d be interested. Were the skeletons at Tailors Court connected with Simon Garchard,
I wonder? I don’t think the bodies snatched from the churchyards were ever found.’

‘How come you know so much about Tailors Court?’

‘My grandparents and my uncle and aunt own the farm next door and my grandmother even lived there for a while. And like I
said, I’ve done my research.’

The light suddenly dawned. ‘Your grandmother’s Mary Haynes.’ Stella Tracey had mentioned that Mary had a granddaughter who
worked for a newspaper. He felt annoyed with himself for not putting two and two together before.

She smiled. ‘Nice deduction, Detective Inspector. The house wasn’t always known as Tailors Court, you know.’

‘It used to be Flesh Tailor’s Court, I believe.’

Nuala’s mouth fell open and he gave her a brief, secretive smile. Her smugness had annoyed him and he rather enjoyed taking
the wind out of her sails.

But her disappointment didn’t last long. ‘I suppose the Flesh disappeared with the apostrophe. And it was called Tradington
Court when it was first built but the locals renamed it. That’s what they used to call Simon. The Flesh Tailor.’

‘Because he cut people up and sewed them back together?’

‘Something like that, I expect.’ She raised her eyes. They were a brilliant blue. Clear and calculating. ‘So, Wesley,’ she
said after a long pause. ‘I’ve told you what I know about Tailors Court so why don’t you return the favour?’

She hitched up her skirt again. Wesley looked across at the reception desk and saw that the officer on duty there was watching
the pair of them with interest while pretending to sort through a pile of forms.

She fluttered her eyelashes again. They were thick with
mascara and they reminded Wesley of predatory spiders. ‘I’m not asking for all your deepest, darkest secrets – although that
would be nice. All I’m asking is that you let me have whatever your press officer’s going to release before it gets made public.’
She pouted like a poor man’s Marilyn Monroe. ‘That’s not too much to ask, is it? And in return, I’ll keep you up to date on
anything I manage to find out. Just like I did today.’

Wesley pretended to consider her proposition for a while. ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ he said after a few moments.

‘You do that. And in the meantime, how about dinner tonight?’

Wesley had assumed that the flirtation was strictly professional – that she was using her feminine charms in pursuit of a
good story. But now it seemed that he might have misread the situation. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to pass,’ he said quickly. ‘Sorry.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Sorry.’

He was rather relieved when his mobile phone began to ring. He answered it and told the caller to hang on while he saw Nuala
Johns off the premises. She seemed reluctant to go, probably suspecting that the call heralded some new development in the
case. But Wesley wasn’t playing that game. He waited until she was safely outside before starting the conversation.

Adam Tey was worried about Charleen. She hadn’t felt the baby move for a few hours and she was starting to panic. Adam had
suggested calling Dr Fitzgerald – or even going down to A and E – but Charleen had put
herself to bed. That was when he’d received the call from Carl Utley.

Carl never left the house these days – not since his problem began. Or at least that’s what he said. Adam had heard that sometimes
he prowled round the area in the hours of darkness, his face shielded with a hood and a scarf. It was like the Phantom of
the Opera, Adam thought to himself, only this was in Neston and there was no chance of Carl Utley gaining power of any sort
over a beautiful woman.

Adam was relieved when Charleen told him that she’d felt a flutter of movement. He leaned over her and kissed her on the forehead,
feeling suddenly protective. After what had happened to their last child she was prone to panic and at that moment he didn’t
really want to leave her alone. But Carl had said it was urgent so he felt he had to go.

He walked to Carl’s flat a few streets away, braving the drizzle, because he’d been cooped up with Charleen for days now and
he felt he needed the exercise. He could hear the rumble of a train on the nearby railway track and he suddenly wished that
he and Charleen could get away from Neston and begin a new life. But he knew it would never happen.

When he arrived at Carl’s flat in the small, brick council block, he rang the doorbell but he had to wait a minute or so before
Carl answered. When the door finally opened the narrow hall was in darkness and Carl stood back in the shadows, the hood of
his sweatshirt pulled up over his head protectively. As Adam stepped inside, he didn’t look in Carl’s direction because he
knew that Carl had a terror of people staring at him.

Without a word Carl led the way into his sitting room. Dark-blue walls, deep red carpet and dark throws draped over the sagging
three-piece suite. The shabby wine-coloured velvet curtains were drawn tightly across and the only source of light was a tiny
lamp in the corner that had been fitted with the dimmest bulb available.

Even when Adam’s eyes had adjusted to the low light level he still couldn’t see Carl properly as he’d positioned himself in
a dark corner and pulled his hood forward to obscure his face.

‘What did you want to see me about?’ he asked. Not being able to see Carl’s face was starting to make him nervous. It was
like talking to a shadow.

Carl didn’t answer for a few moments. Adam could hear his laboured breathing and began to wonder whether he was ill. But then
he spoke.

‘I’ve been going there.’

‘Where?’

‘The clinic.’

Adam glanced at the watch on his wrist. He’d got it off the market and it wasn’t reliable but it was too dark in that room
to make out the time anyway. ‘I don’t get you. What are you talking about? Look, I don’t want to leave Charleen for long.
She had a bit of a scare before and –’