The Merchant's House (3 page)

But whatever the world of education had in store for her,
it was no use sitting around. When she was unoccupied she had time to think of the other phone call she was expecting.

She began to unpack the dinner service from its newspaper cocoons. It emerged, butterfly bright, only to be stacked away in the dresser. At least she was making progress with the house, getting things done. Perhaps Wesley would give her a hand when he got in. He was late – but then that wasn’t unusual.

When she heard the key in the door she stood up and tidied her hair with hands filthy from handling the newsprint.

‘How did it go?’ She watched her husband, trying to gauge his mood. He stood back and smiled.

‘Fine. Any luck with work?’

‘Not yet but it’s early days. Give them a chance to catch flu or have a nervous breakdown. So how was it?’

‘The DI’s a funny character… can’t make him out.’

‘He must be an improvement on your last one.’

‘He seems popular from what I can see. Did you ring your mum?’

‘Thought I’d wait till tomorrow.’

‘And the clinic … did they get in touch?’

She turned away, her shoulders tense. ‘Not yet. I might give them a ring.’

‘I’m not sure about this clinic’ Wesley put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t know why you won’t talk to my parents about it: they’ll recommend someone, someone good. Or you could speak to Maritia …’

‘I don’t want your family knowing all my private business,’ she snapped, determined.

‘But they’re doctors … they’ve got all the right contacts. They’re the best people to discuss it with.’

Wesley’s parents had had their misgivings when he had married Pam: misgivings about a racially mixed marriage; misgivings about Wesley’s choice of Pam rather than his former girlfriend, a black solicitor who attended their church. But the Petersons had come to accept their daughter-in-law, even grown to like her. It was embarrassment, or the fear of being branded a failure, that made Pam keep her silence and seek the help of strangers.

She bent down and continued unpacking the dishes. ‘It said on the radio that a body’s been found.’

‘Yes. That’s where I was most of today. Up on the headland. Lovely spot.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘Was it a murder? It said on the radio that the police were treating it as suspicious.’

‘Looks like murder – some poor woman with her face bashed in.’

Pamela shuddered. It wasn’t safe anywhere these days. Every paradise had its serpent.

Wesley changed the subject. ‘I met Neil Watson on my way to work this morning. He’s working for the County Archaeological Unit, on a dig in Tradmouth town centre, fairly near the police station. I said we might go for a drink with him tonight. That okay?’

She turned away. ‘You can go. I’ve got too much to do.’

‘But we’ve not seen Neil for …’

‘I don’t feel like it. Okay?’

Wesley knew when he had to tread carefully, when things were getting to her. Matters might improve when she had her work to distract her.

‘Shall I get some supper on?’

Pam turned round, looked at him and regretted her sharpness.

‘Yeah,’ she said quietly, apologetically. ‘Have a look in the freezer.’

They ate the meal in silence, relieved only by the babble of the television in the corner. Wesley packed the dishwasher then went upstairs and changed into jeans and denim shirt.

As he went out of the front door on his way to the Tradmouth Arms, he hoped that Pam wouldn’t spend the evening reading and rereading those medical books and crying.

Neil introduced his colleagues. There was Jane, young, blonde and classy, who wore her torn jeans and ragged sweatshirt with style. There was Matt, a little older, who wore a ponytail, a sweatshirt pronouncing the virtues of a
Shropshire public house and a worried expression. They greeted Wesley casually. Neil made no mention of his friend’s profession, but merely said that they had been at university together.

Wesley was glad to be back amongst the archaeological fraternity, the camaraderie of the post-dig drinks session. He felt the tingle of recaptured youth and independence as he downed his second pint. He was glad he’d come.

‘Where are you staying, Neil?’ he asked, curious.

‘Bed and breakfast just outside the town. Cheap and cheerful. Jane and Matt are luckier. They’re on board Jane’s uncle’s yacht on the river.’

Wesley looked impressed. ‘Very nice.’

Jane looked him up and down. ‘You don’t know Jamaica at all, do you, Wesley?’ She spoke with a slow, well-bred voice.

He shook his head. ‘Sorry. I’ve been to Trinidad – that’s where my parents are from – but never Jamaica.’

‘I’ve got a chance to go to Jamaica next year. Marine archaeology … wrecks. I dive. It’s one of my hobbies.’

‘Great. Go for it.’

‘We could do with a few donations of Spanish treasure,’ chipped in Matt bitterly. ‘God knows we’re underfunded. Just think of us freezing in the mud when you’re sunning yourself in the Caribbean, won’t you, Jane.’

Jane picked up her drink and looked away. This was obviously a thorny subject. Neil winked knowingly at Wesley, then took his pint and drank thirstily. He still seemed to have the drinking capacity of his student days: Wesley’s had decreased with age and responsibility.

‘Pity Pam couldn’t make it; said Neil as he put his glass down.

‘Another time. What was this exciting find you mentioned this morning?’

‘We turned up a skeleton… in what would have been the cellar of the merchant’s house. We’ve been assured by all the experts it’s contemporary with the house.’

‘What sort of skeleton? Man … woman?’

‘A baby, newborn or very young. Probably some servant girl had it in secret and it died or she did away with it. Went
on all the time in those days. Still, it’s interesting. I’d like to find out something about the house – who lived there and all that. There’s bound to be records.’

‘Well, you can do all the detective work,’ said Wesley. ‘I’ve got enough on my plate with this murder up at Little Tradmouth.’

‘I heard about it on the radio. Mad rapist, was it?’

‘No sign of anything like that. And I never talk shop out of working hours.’

‘So our Jane can sleep easy in her bed. Not that she does much sleeping when Matt’s about.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows and looked across at the seemingly incongruous couple. Now he knew why the subject of Jane’s Jamaica trip had aroused such acrimony.

‘Another pint?’ he asked. He looked at his watch. With any luck Pam would be asleep when he got back.

Rachel Tracey lay restless in the bed that had been hers from childhood. In the dark she could make out the shapes of the cups and rosettes that still stood on the mantelpiece of the cast-iron fireplace in the corner of the room, a reminder of past gymkhana triumphs. Being the only girl, she had never had to share a room; it was hers alone, a refuge from the uncertainties of the world.

She curled up, pulled the duvet further around her and listened to the sounds of the country night: the screech of the owls; the bark of a fox in the nearby woodland. Sleep wouldn’t come. As she closed her eyes she could see only the face of Elaine Berrisford.

When she had gone to Hedgerow Cottage she had hardly liked to ask the routine questions: had Mrs Berrisford seen anyone, anything suspicious on or around the seventeenth? She had asked apologetically and hardly listened to the monosyllabic answers. To be there at all had seemed like an obscene intrusion on grief. Having done her duty, she had made a rapid exit.

Rachel turned over, switched on the bedside light and picked up the book she’d been reading. But she couldn’t concentrate on the printed words. She saw only the image
of Elaine’s desperate, empty eyes. If only they could find the child alive … if only they could find Jonathon Berrisford.

The ships are nearly prepared for sail. I have set Oliver in charge of the loading and he has so far proved trustworthy. One of the coopers fell ill with a sweating fever yesterday which did cause some delay, yet we should have the work done by Friday if the Lord be willing.

Elizabeth is no better and keeps to her bed and Jennet doth wait upon her.

The girl doth have a modest manner and fine eyes.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,
1 March 1623

Wesley arrived at work bright and early the next morning. To his surprise DI Heffernan had beaten him to it.

‘Don’t get too comfy, we’re going out in a minute,’ the inspector called as he disappeared into his office.

‘Right, guv.’ Wesley sat down at his new desk and opened the drawers. They were empty apart from the bottom one which contained a pile of magazines. He pulled them out. He wasn’t easily shocked but he found the sight of the bored-looking women in various states of degradation distinctly distasteful. He pushed them back into the drawer.

‘Found his little comics, have you? I didn’t know they were still there. I’d have organised a bonfire. No doubt he left them there hoping I’d find them.’

Wesley felt embarrassed. He hadn’t realised Rachel was behind him.

‘I don’t, er, really know how to get rid of them. I don’t want to put them in the bin.’

‘The sooner they’re gone the better. He used to sit there reading one whenever he thought I was looking. Sexist pig.’

‘Who did?’

‘Your predecessor. Harry Marchbank … DS.’

‘I thought you meant the inspector.’

She laughed. ‘You’ve got to be joking. He’s a love.’ She perched herself on the edge of the desk. ‘Heffernan and Marchbank never got on. There was always a bit of an atmosphere. If Harry hadn’t got out when he did, I reckon Heffernan would have got him transferred. Mind you, I didn’t think he’d stay round here long anyway.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He couldn’t stand Tradmouth. Never fitted in. It was his wife who wanted to move down here, and when they split up he was straight back to London. Best place for him.’ She blushed. ‘Oh, no offence.… I didn’t mean …’

Wesley smiled. ‘Don’t worry, no offence taken.’

Their eyes met and Rachel returned his smile. He was an attractive man, she thought, with a gentle, thoughtful manner. It was going to be a refreshing change working with Sergeant Peterson. She stifled a sudden yawn.

‘Tired?’

‘Mmm. I didn’t sleep too well last night. I went to see that poor woman at Hedgerow Cottage and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. It must be awful to lose a child like that … not to know what’s happened to him. She looked so desperate, poor thing.’

Heffernan emerged from his office like a bear waking from hibernation. ‘Come on, Sergeant, get your skates on. We’ve got to be there in half an hour. Don’t want to miss curtain-up, do we?’

‘Don’t we?’

‘You’re not squeamish, are you, Sergeant?’ asked the inspector with relish.

‘Er, no …’

‘We’d best get going, then.’

‘Anything from the house-to-house?’ Heffernan asked as they went out of the station door.

‘Nothing. No one’s seen anything out of the ordinary. Mind you, there are quite a few properties empty up there … holiday cottages.’

‘You get a lot round here.’

‘What about Hedgerow Cottage?’

‘What about it?’

‘Rachel mentioned it.’

‘Thought you might have seen it on the news. It was about a month back. Little boy of two went missing – Jonathon Berrisford. He just vanished into thin air. It’s an isolated spot and nobody saw or heard anything. The only person there was his mother in the house. And there was a farm worker, Bill Boscople, in a field nearby harvesting. Not a sign of the kid.’

‘So what do you reckon, guv?’

‘Probably wandered off somewhere. They might find the poor little blighter in a ditch or something when the vegetation dies back. We had the helicopter out every day for a week. No sign.’

‘What about his mother? Most murders are family affairs.’

‘Well, it’s not my case. Stan Jenkins is in charge … you’ve not met him yet. He reckons there’s no chance it’s her and I trust Stan’s judgement.’

‘She might be very convincing.’

‘She might be but my money’s on the ditch.’

‘And the father?’

‘He wasn’t there. They live up north somewhere. She’s a teacher or lecturer of some kind and she spends the holidays in their cottage down here. He’s a wine merchant, I think … just comes down when he can. She’s still at the cottage now. Wanted to stop down here just in case. I don’t know if I’m a big softy or what but I hate anything to do with kids.’ He sighed. ‘Come on. We’d better shift ourselves. We don’t want to be late.’

They reached the station carpark but Heffernan kept on walking.

‘Aren’t we going in the car, guv?’

‘No. It’s only down the road. You young ones nowadays … you’ll lose the use of your legs if you’re not careful.’