‘Rachel and Trish are going to see if Angela Simms is up to answering a few questions. She has to be a suspect, don’t you
think?’
‘The wronged woman getting her revenge and all that.’ Heffernan looked sceptical. ‘It’s possible. But where did she get the
gun from?’
‘And what about Terry Hoxworthy? He was friendly with Angela and he saw what Jonny did to her and the gun was found in his
house. It might not have been Lewis who hid it there. Terry could have killed Jonny.’
‘Again it’s possible. But was Angela’s attacker really after the money in her till? Let’s face it, there couldn’t have been
much.’ Gerry Heffernan put his head in his hands.
‘We’re missing something here,’ Wesley said quietly. ‘Has Steve managed to find out what happened to Angela’s brother, James
Simms?’
‘He said he drew a blank. But that doesn’t mean James Simms isn’t abroad somewhere. It doesn’t even mean he’s still alive.’
‘But if he is …’ Wesley didn’t finish the sentence. ‘I want to do a bit more digging.’
An hour later Wesley Peterson was still looking through his files. The answer had to be somewhere.
PC Wallace greeted Rachel and Trish at the door of the ward and told them that the doctor had given strict instructions that
the patient was only to be subjected to the gentlest
of questioning, which must stop the moment she showed any signs of fatigue.
Rachel didn’t comment on this piece of what she considered to be medical bossiness. She strode, tight lipped, towards Angela’s
bed in a private room near the nurses’ desk, Trish following in her wake.
Angela’s dark eyes flicked open as the two policewomen approached. Rachel drew up a chair, introduced herself and smiled.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not too bad,’ the patient muttered weakly, almost in a whisper.
‘Are you up to answering a few questions?’
Angela tried to nod, but it wasn’t a good idea. She winced with pain. ‘Did you see who did this to you?’
‘No … I mean, I can’t remember …’ Her voice was weak, husky.
Rachel came straight to the point. ‘Jonny Shellmer was your brother, wasn’t he?’
Angela stared at the ceiling. ‘Half-brother. We had the same father.’
She paused and Rachel remained silent, waiting for her to elaborate in her own time.
‘My father used to go to Liverpool on business and he had a girlfriend there and she had Jonny. Dad used to bring Jonny down
to stay with us in the summer ’cause he wanted us all to be one big happy family. But my mum resented Jonny, although Dad
never saw that – he looked at life through rose-tinted glasses, did Dad.’
‘Did you have any other brothers or sisters?’
She hesitated. ‘A brother.’
‘What was his name?’
Another hesitation. ‘James,’ she whispered. ‘Jim.’
‘Are you still in touch with him?’
Angela closed her eyes. ‘He went away.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Dead,’ she said quickly.
‘I believe you were friendly with Terry Hoxworthy when you were young.’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve just heard that his son, Lewis, has been found safe and well.’
Angela made weak noises of relief, but Rachel knew there was still fear there, skulking in the background like a beast in
the undergrowth. But whatever Angela might be feeling, Rachel knew it was her job to uncover the truth. ‘Terry rescued you
from drowning.’
No reply.
‘He told us what happened – about Jonny.’ Rachel spoke quietly, almost in a whisper.
A spasm of pain passed over Angela’s face. ‘You had a very good reason to kill Jonny Shellmer,’ said Rachel, watching Angela’s
face.
‘No.’
‘Then if you didn’t kill him, you’re protecting whoever did.’
‘No.’
‘You’ve met Jonny several times recently. You visited his house.’ Normally Rachel would have been all gentle understanding
and sisterly solidarity with a rape victim, but something about Angela Simms didn’t quite ring true. ‘Why did you stay in
contact with him? Why did you keep his pictures in your bedroom drawer?’
Angela was silent. Rachel saw the fear in her eyes as her hand crept over the sheet, searching for the buzzer that would call
the nurse. She pressed it and a few seconds later Rachel heard bustling footsteps approaching.
But Rachel had one parting shot. ‘What happened to your brother James? How did he die?’
A tall, fair-haired nurse appeared like a pantomime fairy godmother. ‘That’s enough for today,’ she said firmly, giving Rachel
a hostile stare. ‘She needs to rest.’
Rachel knew she was on to something so she pretended she hadn’t heard. ‘What happened to James?’ she repeated.
‘He went abroad. He died,’ Angela mumbled quickly as the nurse frowned down at them.
Rachel knew then that Angela Simms was a very frightened woman – and it couldn’t be the dead Jonny Shellmer she was afraid
of.
My most dear wife,
I return tomorrow but I send this ahead by a carrier bound for Tradmouth. I was greatly distressed by your news. Are you certain
of the truth of it, for I cannot believe that he would defile his own kinswoman, his own sister. Yet would Elizabeth lie to
you about such a thing?
I do not think him capable of such evil against his own blood, but if it is true he shall pay for this dishonour with his
life, and I swear I shall destroy him with my own hand.
As for Elizabeth, she must go to the holy sisters at Stokeworthy, for no man would have her as his wife so defiled by her
own kin. She must bear the child you say she carries in deepest shame, and I pray God to have mercy on her.
See the priest and ask his counsel. I shall be in Derenham within two days.
Your husband Richard Merrivale
Written at Bristol this twenty-fifth day of August 1471
Wesley could tell Gerry Heffernan was restless. He wanted something, anything, to happen. Rachel’s report of her interview
with Angela Simms had whetted his appetite. Was there something about Jonny Shellmer’s half-brother, James, that they should
be investigating. His life? His death?
Rachel’s encounter with Angela had been discussed and analysed. It was possible that she had killed Jonny. But she had kept
his pictures and it seemed they had been in regular contact since Jonny moved to the area. She might even have been the person
Jonny wanted Sherry Smyth to meet.
And there was the old snapshot Rachel said she’d found in Angela’s flat; the photograph with somebody’s image carefully cut
out, a memory obliterated. He took the photograph he had found at Jonny’s cottage out of his drawer and stared. Was the missing
boy Jonny? Or was it the older boy, the one he had assumed was James? In the fuzzy snaps it would probably be hard to tell.
Wesley sat back with a sigh; perhaps things weren’t as straightforward as they thought. He wanted to speak to Angela himself
but, after all she had been through, he didn’t want to make things worse for her than they already were. He knew it would
have to wait.
It was half past four when he received a call saying that Lewis Hoxworthy was back in the bosom of his family. Wesley, deep
in paperwork and witness statements, looked at his watch: it would be another late night; another night when he wouldn’t get
home until after Michael’s bedtime. He was becoming an absent father, he thought bitterly – and that was something he had
never intended to be.
He followed Gerry Heffernan out of the office in silence. Rachel Tracey looked up from her desk and gave him a coy smile which
he returned, wondering why life had to be so complicated.
On the way to Hoxworthy’s Farm they passed the old barn. Wesley thought fleetingly about the huge semicircular painted vision
of heaven and hell that had been found there. But there was no time for such thoughts now. They had to discover what Lewis
Hoxworthy knew about the gun found in his wardrobe, and about the death of Jonny Shellmer.
They found Lewis seated at the dining table, tucking into what looked like a home-made apple pie. Wesley suddenly felt hungry.
Terry was out, seeing to the business of the
farm, but Jill hovered around the table like an over-zealous waitress, anticipating the prodigal’s every desire. Lewis wore
a self-satisfied grin. And why shouldn’t he? He was being treated like visiting royalty. But Wesley and Heffernan, seeing
the ecstatic relief on the mother’s face, understood why. They were both familiar with the phenomenon of an errant child being
greeted by joyful, tearful hugs rather than a scolding for all the trouble they’d caused.
Gerry Heffernan sat himself down next to Lewis without being asked. ‘We’ll have to ask you some questions, Lewis. You know
that?’
The smug look disappeared and Lewis nodded warily.
‘Your mum found a gun in your bedroom – the gun that killed a man at the Old Vicarage. Want to tell us about it?’
Lewis, whose mother had always instructed him not to speak with his mouth full, swallowed the piece of apple pie he’d been
chewing. ‘I just found him there … with this gun by him as if he’d killed himself. I took the gun.’ He hung his head and had
the good grace to look ashamed.
‘Why did you take it?’
Lewis swallowed hard. ‘Yossa and all the others were always doing things, pinching things. They always said I was soft … that
I wouldn’t have the bottle. I knew the Old Vicarage was empty so I broke in the back and looked round for something to take;
something to prove to them that I had the bottle. Then I saw him lying there with this gun by him and …’
‘Lewis,’ said Jill, shocked. Gerry Heffernan gave her a warning look. This was no time for parental admonishments to get in
the way of the investigation.
‘So you took it to look big in front of Yossa and his mates?’ said Wesley gently. He looked at the boy and understood. Lewis
had never been one of the chosen ones – breaking into the Old Vicarage and taking the gun was his passport to acceptance.
‘Can you draw, Lewis?’
Lewis looked surprised at this unexpected question and nodded his head.
‘He’s very good at art,’ Jill Hoxworthy chimed in proudly.
‘Can you draw us a rough sketch of how you found the body, showing exactly where the gun was?’
Heffernan looked on approvingly but stayed silent.
‘Did you see a yellow sports car outside the Old Vicarage when you broke in?’
‘Yeah. It was parked at the front. Porsche. Nice.’
‘Is there anything else you can remember, anything you can tell us?’
Lewis shook his head.
‘How about telling us why you went off without a word to anyone and worried your mum and dad sick?’ Heffernan said. ‘And then
you can tell us all about the letters you sold to an American gentleman on a yacht for a considerable sum of money. Well?’
Lewis hung his head again, the naughty schoolboy found behind the bike shed by the headmaster. The sullen teenager had metamorphosed
into a little boy.
‘I don’t know why I went off. That bloke on the posh yacht gave me all this money and I thought why don’t I have a bit of
an adventure for a change, so I went up to Wales to look at the castles – I’ve never been there before and I stayed in nice
hotels, the lot. We never get to go on holiday ’cause of the farm. I’ve only ever stayed with my aunty in Cornwall and that
doesn’t count.’
‘And you never thought to let your mum and dad know you were safe?’
Lewis glanced at his mother. ‘I never thought. They’re always busy with the farm and that – I never thought they’d be worried.’
‘Of course we were worried.’ Jill was close to tears. ‘We were worried sick.’
There was an awkward pause, and Lewis pushed what remained of his apple pie around his plate.
‘How much money have you got left, Lewis?’ Wesley asked.
Lewis shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not much. I didn’t know hotels were so dear,’ he mumbled, avoiding Wesley’s eyes.
‘Where did you find the letters you sold?’
‘In the old barn – in a tin box behind that horrible painting propped up in the hayloft. There were thirteen old letters –
fifteenth-century. I copied them out before I sold them. I reckon they were written by those people who’ve got that big grave
in the church. The Merrivales. They’re digging up their old house near the church, you know.’
Wesley leaned forward. ‘And what did the letters say?’
Lewis delved into his trouser pocket and produced a few crumpled sheets of paper. He handed them to Wesley. ‘Keep those, if
you like. I’ve got another copy.’ The bravado was gradually seeping back into his voice.
‘If you’re so interested in history, why don’t you go and help out at the dig?’ said Wesley helpfully. ‘A friend of mine’s
in charge, so I could put in a word …’
Lewis looked tempted for a few seconds, then shook his head.
Wesley put the copies of the letters in his pocket and looked at Lewis, who was stuffing a chocolate bar into his mouth, watched
by his doting mother. He took a deep breath. There was another question he wanted to ask.
‘On the Wednesday afternoon, before you broke into the Old Vicarage, did you see anyone around? Your dad says you were helping
to clear out the old barn. Did you see anyone passing in a car … or perhaps someone on foot taking a short cut back to the
village? Anyone at all?’
‘No.’
Wesley looked him in the eye and he looked away. Lewis Hoxworthy was not a very good liar.
Wesley wanted to talk to Terry Hoxworthy again while the questions were fresh in his mind. He hadn’t told them everything
at their last meeting, he was certain of that. There was more he could reveal about that distant August thirty-five years
ago.
Gerry Heffernan walked silently by his side away from the farmhouse. Lewis had confirmed Paul Heygarth’s account of exactly
how the body was found, and it looked more and more as if Heygarth had been telling the truth. They would have to look elsewhere
for Jonny Shellmer’s killer.
They found Terry outside the new barn. He looked up nervously as they approached, as though he had other things on his mind
than Lewis’s homecoming.