The four last things.’ The resonant voice, rather like the voice of the Almighty Himself, made Neil jump. He swung round to
see a middle-aged man standing behind him, tall and tanned with a shock of white hair. He was staring at the Doom, mesmerised
by its writhing images.
‘If you want to know more about that thing,’ the man began, as though making conversation, ‘we’re having a history evening
here next Saturday. We’ve arranged music and drama and …’
‘Yes, I know. I’m planning to be there.’ Neil thought it was time he presented his credentials. ‘I’m Neil Watson from the
County Archaeological Unit and I’m in charge of the excavation down the road.’
The man looked faintly embarrassed at having taken Neil for a member of the public. He held out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet
you. I’m Jeremy Sedley. I’ve been reading up on the history of Derenham church – cribbing from the guidebook if the truth
be known.’ He looked down at the floor modestly. ‘I’m speaking at the history evening. We all have to do our bit for the community,
don’t we. Are you taking part?’
‘Maggie Flowers has asked me to say something about the dig.’
‘Maggie’s a hard woman to say no to.’
Neil grinned. ‘You could say that.’
‘Tell me about your dig. Have you found anything exciting?
It must be wonderful to dig up all those treasures – I’m really quite envious.’
‘It’s not all Tutankhamun’s tomb, you know,’ said Neil, anxious to put the actor right. ‘We’ve found the remains of an old
manor house that we think belonged to a family called Merrivale in the fifteenth century. In fact I’m reading some letters
written by them at the moment.’
‘What do they say?’
‘They’re quite interesting – all about the mum trying to get the kids married off and having a problem stepson. There’s a
bit about the Battle of Tewkesbury as well – reading an account written by a man who was there brings it to life.’
Sedley nodded, seemingly fascinated. It never occurred to Neil that the man might be using his well-honed acting ability to
feign interest. ‘What about that skeleton you dug up? Any clues?’
Neil shook his head, disappointed that he couldn’t answer. He was only halfway through the book and he had, as yet, found
nothing to help him solve the mystery of his skeleton’s gruesome death. ‘Do you know much about the Merrivales?’ he asked
hopefully. ‘I presume they had connections with this church.’
‘There are some early brasses marking Merrivale tombs in the chancel and the guidebook says that some of them are buried in
the family chapel over there.’ Sedley pointed to a small chapel at the end of the aisle, partitioned off from the rest of
the church by a richly carved oak screen.
Neil strolled over to the Merrivales’ chapel and entered through the narrow doorway. A small altar stood at the east end,
decorated with a vase of dying flowers. There was an aura of dust and death in the chapel, and somehow the dying flowers looked
right. It wouldn’t be the place for fresh, vibrant blooms.
In the centre of the chapel stood a large tomb chest upon which lay an alabaster effigy of a knight in armour beside a lady
who was, presumably, his wife. They lay side by side as though resting on a great double bed, their hands pointing
to heaven in a pious attitude of prayer.
‘Rather magnificent, isn’t it,’ whispered Jeremy Sedley, who had followed him in. ‘Richard and Marjory Merrivale.’
Neil recognised the names – the authors of the Merrivale letters. He stared at their effigies, studying the carved faces.
Sedley stood and watched while Neil circled the monument. Neil ran his fingers lightly over the lettering around the edge
of the tomb. He translated from the Latin in his head. ‘Pray for the souls of Richard and Marjory Merrivale and of their children.’
All pretty standard stuff, he thought – until he saw the words beneath. ‘And may the soul of the wicked one be cursed to everlasting
damnation.’
He took a step back. ‘Strange inscription,’ he said, turning to Sedley, who was watching him intently, as though waiting for
him to make a dramatic discovery.
‘Yes. I read about it in the guidebook. Odd.’
‘Who’s the wicked one, then?’
‘I don’t think anybody knows. Have you seen the effigies on the other side? I presume they’re the children. I take it they’re
buried here too.’
Neil walked slowly to the other side of the tomb, not taking his eyes off the carved alabaster couple who were staring serenely
at the ceiling. Set into the body of the tomb on the north side were three niches. Neil had seen tombs like this before where
figures of dutiful children knelt in line in order of age, all in attitudes of prayer, interceding for the immortal souls
of their dead parents. He had always found them rather amusing – the pious, mealy-mouthed offspring who probably hated each
other and gave their mum and dad a terrible time in life, posed stiffly on their tomb, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt
in their mouths and all dressed up in their Sunday best, in the medieval answer to a family snapshot.
The first two figures were conventional enough. A young man and a young woman, richly dressed, kneeling in devotion. But he
wasn’t prepared for the contents of the third niche. The third figure wasn’t kneeling. It was writhing in
agony, engulfed by what appeared to be flames – and it was headless. Neil took a step back and stared at it.
‘Strange, isn’t it,’ said Jeremy Sedley conversationally.
Neil thought for a moment. ‘I wonder if this Richard Merrivale guy made a will. It might mention something about …’
‘I’ve really no idea,’ Sedley said quickly.
‘We found a skeleton buried near the Merrivales’ manor house. It belonged to a young man who had been decapitated.’
‘Well, there you are, then,’ said Sedley. ‘There’s your explanation.’
‘It still doesn’t tell us why he was buried there and not in the church with the rest of his family. Unless he was the wicked
one who was to be cursed to whatever it was.’
Sedley looked around the chapel as though seeing it for the first time. ‘The guidebook says that there are no Merrivale tombs
in this church later than this one.’
‘None whatsoever?’
‘It was as if the family ceased to exist.’
‘If the kids had died before Richard and Marjory then there might have been no heirs. But their manor house was destroyed
about that time as well. Funny.’
Sedley said nothing. He turned and walked out of the Merrivale chapel, leaving Neil staring at the fiery headless figure on
the side of the tomb. He noticed some tiny letters painted in the bottom right-hand corner of the niche but he couldn’t make
them out, even when he squatted down and looked closely. The medieval paint had faded over the centuries: unlike the Doom
the job had probably been done with cheap paint, he thought as he tried to make out the words in the dim light that filtered
through a stained-glass window.
He could just make out a couple of the letters. T … Am. But the rest were indecipherable. He straightened himself up and marched
quickly from the chapel, feeling a strong urge to get out of that place of death. The Merrivale chapel gave him the creeps.
*
It was a matter of waiting patiently for Hal Lancaster to turn up. But patience had never been Gerry Heffernan’s strongest
virtue.
Paul Heygarth was sticking to his story that he left Jonny Shellmer looking around the Old Vicarage on Wednesday afternoon,
returning the next day to find him dead and then proceeding to cover up the fact that murder had been committed in such a
lucrative property. The police had got no more out of him so they had no alternative but to release him – much to Gerry Heffernan’s
displeasure. He was sure of Heygarth’s guilt.
He was restless, pacing up and down the CID office like a caged animal. Wesley felt it would be best if he was distracted,
but he couldn’t quite decide how to do it.
Rachel Tracey sat at her desk, working with quiet efficiency, talking on the telephone, calling up information on her computer.
Wesley watched her, half admiring, half concerned. He suspected that she was burying herself in her work, trying to forget
the events of six months ago which had left such deep emotional scars. Not that Rachel would admit that anything was wrong:
she kept up an impressive façade. But Wesley knew the truth … and he didn’t know what to do about it.
She saw him watching her and smiled shyly. Steve Carstairs, at the next desk, noticed and smirked knowingly before bowing
his head over a mountain of statement forms. Wesley looked away. This was how gossip began, and Steve wouldn’t be averse to
causing a bit of trouble.
Rachel stood up and walked over to Wesley’s desk. She glanced warily at Steve before perching herself on the edge. He didn’t
look up.
‘I’ve been on to Kent police about Alec Treadly and his known associates,’ she began. Her voice was impersonal, professional.
‘They reckon that Treadly was a loner. He didn’t tend to associate with other paedophiles, at least not to their knowledge.
But he might have branched out, of course.’
Wesley sensed there was more. ‘Go on.’
‘His cottage has been searched thoroughly … much to Ma Treadly’s annoyance. She didn’t half give the officers a hard time.’
She grinned. ‘Nothing was found and there’s certainly no computer on the premises, so if someone was surfing the Net looking
for likely victims, it wasn’t Alec Treadly. There was no computer in Jonny Shellmer’s cottage either.’
‘It doesn’t mean he didn’t contact them in other ways.’
‘Treadly denies knowing Paul Heygarth, Jonny Shellmer or Hal Lancaster. And Paul Heygarth swears he’s never heard of Alec
Treadly.’
‘Do you believe them?’
Rachel thought for a moment. ‘I don’t want to but … yes, I do. And I’ve drawn a blank on any organised paedophile activity
in the area. Nobody’s heard a whisper.’
‘So either they’re good at covering their tracks or …’
‘Or Hal Lancaster’s acting alone.’
‘Or perhaps Lewis’s disappearance has got nothing to do with paedophiles after all.’ Wesley looked at his watch. Three-thirty.
He felt he needed something that would set his thoughts on the right track.
When Steve Carstairs announced to the office that the chief inspector had ordered him to visit Shellmer’s place and bring
back any personal papers he could find, Wesley said he’d go with him. He didn’t pretend to enjoy Steve’s company but he wanted
to pay another visit to the picture-postcard cottage that had been Shellmer’s last home.
Steve was silent for the first part of the journey, which was much as Wesley had expected. So he was rather surprised when
Steve began a conversation.
‘What do you make of all this, sir? Do you think it’s got something to do with perverts or what?’ He sounded worried, as if
the case was preying on his mind.
Wesley looked at him. This wasn’t like Steve at all.
‘I wish I knew,’ he replied. ‘I’d like to find out if Shellmer had any connection with this area.’
‘There’s nothing about Devon in his authorised biography,’ said Steve with authority. ‘I was reading it last night. My girlfriend
lent it to me.’
A girlfriend. This was news Wesley hadn’t heard. No wonder he seemed to have mellowed.
‘It says he lived in Liverpool,’ Steve continued, ‘and he used to take his holidays in North Wales, but it never mentions
Devon. I can bring it into the office tomorrow if you like,’ he offered. There was an eagerness in his voice Wesley had rarely
heard before. Things were looking up.
‘Thanks, that might be useful,’ Wesley said as they drew up outside Warwick Cottage. A biography was hardly evidence, but
it might tell them something new about the dead man. And Steven’s new-found enthusiasm was something to be encouraged.
‘Is Sherry Smyth still here?’ said Steve with a detectable leer.
‘No. She went back to London yesterday.’
‘She’s fit. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed, eh?’
Wesley suppressed a smile. The old Steve was back. They let themselves into the cottage with the key Heffernan had kept in
his possession, watched by the two women next door, who stood at their window and gave a tentative wave when they knew they
had been spotted. Wesley raised his hand in acknowledgement.
‘Pair of old dykes them two – you can tell,’ Steve commented knowingly as they stepped over the threshold.
Wesley didn’t answer. Perhaps hopes of a new, reconstructed, caring, sharing Steve Carstairs were pie in the sky after all.
‘Have a look around,’ he said quietly. ‘See what you can find.’
Steve began his search while Wesley went upstairs, in pursuit of inspiration. There was something he had seen upstairs, something
that might be important. He entered the bedroom, remembering that Sherry Smyth had been in residence since his last visit.
But she had left little trace of her
presence behind. A pair of laddered tights and a few used tissues stained with make-up discarded in the wicker waste basket
were the only indications that she had ever been there.
Wesley began to search through the drawers again, idly pushing underwear and clothes around, looking for anything hidden that
he might have missed last time. But there was nothing. He picked up the card with the angel on the front – Angela Simms had
stocked similar cards in her shop. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that the ‘Angel’ who had sent it
was Angela herself.
Then he saw the photograph nestling in a cocoon of socks in the top drawer. He pulled it out and sat down on the bed, staring
at it. He had only given it a cursory glance the last time he had visited the cottage but now he studied it carefully. There
were four children, three boys and a girl. Wesley couldn’t decide whether there was any resemblance between them, and he stared
hard at their faces, searching for telltale signs of some genetic relationship. But the snap was small and unclear, as though
it had been taken with a cheap camera some distance away from its subjects. After a while he thought he could detect a likeness
around the eyes – but, he told himself, it could have been his imagination.