Standing there on the ladder, his hands gripping tightly until the knuckles were bone white, he scanned the loft, registering
the condition of the place, the evidence of neglect … and the fact that Neil Watson was nowhere to be seen.
Paul Heygarth stared at the door which led from the rather grand dining room to the drawing room. It was shut, as all the
doors should be. The owners, Colonel and Mrs Porter, had been quite particular on that point. Whoever showed potential buyers
around had to make sure all the doors were shut. As the house wasn’t alarmed, Paul thought this was probably a minor eccentricity
on the part of the elderly couple – unless they knew something that he didn’t. As the vendors – as he habitually thought of
the colonel and his good lady – were away settling into their new property in the south of France, he supposed that if all
the doors were left wide open they wouldn’t have been any the wiser, but he had half-heartedly acceded to their wishes. They
were
going to pay him handsomely when the place was sold. And he needed the money. Needed it soon.
He looked at his watch. There was plenty of time before his appointment at Mr Hoxworthy’s barn. He opened the door and stepped
into the drawing room, his feet sinking into the thick Persian carpet. The room was gloomy – north facing – and it seemed
smaller than he remembered.
From his vantage point by the dining-room door he couldn’t see the thing blocking the other doorway as a floppy dark red sofa
of huge proportions was obscuring his view. He walked around the edge of the room, his estate agent’s eye taking in every
detail of the décor, which might push the asking price up a few hundred pounds.
When he saw the shape on the floor he stopped and stared. If Paul Heygarth had been a religious man, and if he had known the
identity of the patron saint of estate agents, he might have sent up a swift prayer beseeching that the unfortunate soul lying
on the carpet before him be taken up bodily into the next world and vanish from mortal sight without a trace.
There was nothing like a violent death on the premises for bringing down the value of a property.
My well beloved wife,
I beseech you not to concern yourself overmuch with my welfare. I have orders from the Earl of Devonshire to ride speedily
to Tradmouth to raise men for Queen Margaret’s cause. So fear not, good wife, I shall be with you at Derenham presently.
As to the other matter, my son John was ever a wilful and disobedient child (having inherited the nature of my first wife,
his mother). I think it best to advance the cause of this young woman of Exeter as marriage will steady the lad.
Is there no young man suitable as husband for Elizabeth? She is a good girl and will have two hundred and fifty pounds in
money at her marriage. Look to the matter if you will, and find her a young man with a good fortune. As to Edmund, he does
well in the Earl’s household and will soon have need of a good wife. But all this we will talk of on my return.
Your loving and faithful husband
Richard
Written at London this twenty-fifth day of March 1471
Nicola Tarnley sat at her desk in the front office of Heygarth and Proudfoot typing house details into her flickering
computer. The office was empty for once; that was good. It meant she could get on with some of her paperwork instead of being
charming to well-heeled house-hunters and sympathetic to the sheepish young local couples who watched the area’s mounting
house prices with a mixture of open-mouthed disbelief and resentful bitterness. But just as Nicola was anticipating half an
hour of peace, the telephone on her desk began to ring.
She picked it up. ‘Heygarth and Proudfoot, Nicola Tarnley speaking. How may I help you?’ The words were second nature. She
was sure she mumbled them in her sleep.
‘Nicola.’ The voice on the other end of the line was low, conspiratorial, and at first she didn’t recognise it as Paul’s.
‘I’ve got a problem here. Can you come down to Derenham? The Old Vicarage.’
‘But there’s nobody else in the office. Jim won’t be back for an hour or so.’
‘Just lock up and get here quick. It’s an emergency.’
‘Okay,’ she said, pressing the Save key on the computer. ‘What kind of emergency? A burst pipe? Do you want me to call a plumber
or anything?’ She could hear Paul breathing heavily on the other end of the line. ‘A doctor?’ she suggested anxiously.
‘Just get down here as quick as you can.’
Without another word Nicola switched off her computer and turned on the office answering machine. She locked the door of Heygarth
and Proudfoot behind her and marched down Tradmouth High Street, heading for the carpark near the waterfront. Parking, like
most of life’s mundane tasks, was easier out of the tourist season. The river was a deep shade of battleship grey, and a pale
mist was beginning to creep into the town off the water. Nicola shivered. It was cold, but at least the drizzle had stopped.
Nicola drove, a little too fast, out of the town and down the winding lanes leading to the village of Derenham – a pretty
place about three miles upstream from Tradmouth
with a wealth of desirable country properties – wondering what Paul’s emergency could be.
Neil Watson looked stunned as he wandered out of the great barn doors. Terry Hoxworthy had returned for the verdict, and now
he stood staring at the archaeologist, waiting for him to speak. Mark Telston hovered behind, fidgeting with his Disney tie,
also awaiting the expert’s verdict.
‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ Neil asked, not quite sure how to break either.
‘Let’s start with the bad, eh?’ said Hoxworthy. He still had the shotgun over his arm, and Neil eyed it warily.
‘The bad news is that the barn certainly seems to be a medieval structure, so it’s probably going to have to be listed. Various
other experts will be consulted, of course, and I’ll arrange to have samples of wood from the beams taken for dating. Then
we’ll have to await the verdict. I won’t be making the final decision.’ He mentally added the words ‘so don’t blame me’. ‘But
in view of the field systems found in the course of the previous excavations I do feel …’
‘Is there a chance you could be wrong?’ the farmer asked, shifting the shotgun a little.
Neil shrugged. ‘I’m not infallible,’ he admitted modestly.
Hoxworthy was staring at him as if he were something one of his prize herd of cows might have deposited on the ground of the
meadow next door. Neil sensed that what he had to say was as unwelcome as a fresh batch of forms from the Ministry of Agriculture.
‘So what’s the good news?’ said Hoxworthy under his breath.
Neil pulled his old khaki coat tightly around him against the damp, chilly air and tried to look cheerful, which was difficult
in the circumstances. ‘Well, I think there’s a chance that you might have something very exciting in there,’ he said.
Terry Hoxworthy looked anything but excited. ‘So what is it, then?’
‘I think I’ve found a piece of medieval art up in the loft. I can’t be certain, of course, but …’
Hoxworthy’s eyes lit up. Art: that meant money, lots of it. He’d heard of people finding priceless art treasures in their
attics: perhaps not getting planning permission for the barn wouldn’t be such a disaster after all.
‘What kind of art? How much do you reckon it’s worth?’
‘I really can’t say.’
‘What is it? A painting?’ It must have been a small one, Terry thought, or he’d have noticed it. Perhaps it was something
his dad had picked up at one of those auctions he was always going to. One of those Madonna-and-Child pictures perhaps, by
some famous Italian painter. Worth a fortune. Millions. His heart began to beat faster. His troubles might be over.
‘Sort of,’ said Neil non-committally. ‘It’s in the hayloft.’ He looked at Terry Hoxworthy, feeling a little more confident
now that the farmer was obviously so keen on the subject of medieval art. ‘Are you coming up to see it, then?’
‘Just try and stop me,’ Terry replied, propping his shotgun against the wall of the barn.
Two hours later Terry Hoxworthy strolled across the steep field which tumbled down almost to the riverbank, and stared into
the distance, a disappointed man.
He could see that Neil Watson’s yellow Mini was still parked by the old barn. The archaeologist was hanging about, apparently
excited about the ‘art’ in the hayloft, which had turned out to be no desirable Madonna-and-Child but a great ugly sick thing
that anybody in their right mind would put straight on a bonfire. Watson either had a warped sense of humour or he was a fool.
The planning officer and the estate agent had left long since. Heygarth, the estate agent – whose mind hadn’t
seemed to be on the job – had brought the good news that the barn was a desirable property, ripe for conversion, and should
fetch a decent price, which was what Terry wanted to hear. Prices of livestock and produce had plummeted and red tape had
spread like foot-and-mouth disease. Times were hard.
The barn’s sale would put the farm on a sounder financial footing. He knew that another local farmer had sold a redundant
barn for a pretty price, and now it was used by a lawyer from London as a holiday home. You had to do what you could these
days.
Terry trudged on through the field, his Border collie, Bess, walking patiently at his heels. The cows spotted him with their
great, calm eyes and began to amble slowly towards him. Terry looked at them and smiled. His girls. Early that morning he
had thought one of them might be going lame and he had come to have a look at her. He spotted her and watched her for a while.
She seemed to be walking normally now. Nothing to worry about. No need to go to the expense of calling the vet out.
Bess had bounded off towards the hedge that divided the meadow from the narrow lane beyond. Terry called to her but, unusually,
she didn’t come to him. She had more important things to concern her. More important, even, than obeying a much-loved master
with whom she’d worked for seven contented years.
Terry Hoxworthy was no longer a young man; his round face had been beaten by fifty winters and browned by as many Devon summers.
But there was nothing wrong with his eyesight, and one glance towards the hedgerow told him that the dog had found something.
Something big. The cows watched, disappointed, as he walked away from them and headed down the field towards the gate that
opened onto the lane.
A few yards to the side of the gate something lay against the towering hedge. Part of it looked black and shiny. A bin-bag?
Had someone been dumping their garden rubbish
in the field? People from the town who hadn’t a clue about the countryside? He quickened his steps, anger rising within him.
‘Leave it, Bess,’ he called.
But when he drew closer he saw that the object of Bess’s attention wasn’t a sack of rubbish. It was a man lying on his side,
his face turned towards the foot of the hedge. A man wearing tight denim jeans and a black leather jacket. Terry shouted sharply
to Bess again. This time she gave him a reproachful look and slunk to his side.
Terry’s first thought was that it was some drunk, sleeping it off in his field. But the man’s clothes looked expensive, the
black leather jacket soft and well cut, hardly the attire of a vagrant. He stepped forward and gave the man an experimental
tap with his muddy wellington boot. But there was no groan, no drunken stirring.
Patting Bess reassuringly on the head, Terry bent down, leaning over to see the face. The man did look as though he was asleep;
the lined face was strangely peaceful, as though he would wake up refreshed at any moment.
But then Terry saw the mark on his forehead. A small round mark. Neat and black.
Bess gazed up at her master adoringly as he drew a tiny mobile phone from the deep pocket of his well-worn coat and punched
out 999, keeping a wary eye on the cows, who were edging forward, curious to see the still and silent newcomer to their domain.
As the police car sped along the lane, the young man sitting in the back seat spotted Neil Watson in the doorway of Terry
Hoxworthy’s old barn. He couldn’t be sure it was Neil, of course, as he had only glimpsed him for a second. The police don’t
have time to slow down and admire the scenery when a suspicious death is reported.
Detective Inspector Wesley Peterson turned to his companion. ‘I’m sure that was Neil back there. He’s working on the other
side of Derenham, near the church.
Do you remember that workman who came into the station about a month ago – he was working on this new village hall they’re
building in Derenham. He had a human skull in a carrier bag and he dumped it on the front desk. It gave poor Bob Naseby the
shock of his life?’
‘Oh, aye. I remember,’ said Detective Chief Inspector Heffernan absently, his mind on other things.
‘As well as the skull they’d uncovered a section of medieval wall. I told Neil about it and he rushed down to Derenham and
halted the building work. The site’s being excavated properly now.’
Heffernan grunted. ‘I haven’t seen him lurking around making the place look untidy for a while. So what’s he found in Derenham,
then?’
‘He reckons it’s a high-status domestic building, probably a manor house. He’s quite excited about it.’
Detective Chief Inspector Gerry Heffernan slumped in his seat. He was a big man with unkempt hair and a pronounced Liverpool
accent. His shirt strained open at his midriff, exposing a patch of bare, hairy flesh which he scratched absent-mindedly from
time to time. ‘I’ve come across your mate Neil when he’s excited – not a pretty sight.’
Wesley Peterson, in his late twenties, black, good looking and positively dapper in comparison to his boss, smiled philosophically
and said nothing. They turned into a narrow lane where several police cars were parked.
The thoroughfare – two cars wide, which was rare for this part of Devon – was completely blocked, and a young uniformed constable
guarded the junction, his face serious as he contemplated the awesome responsibility of his allotted task.