Gerry Heffernan caught up with him. ‘Any sign?’
Wesley shook his head. Then he saw her likely escape route, a tiny footpath which appeared to lead back to the main street.
But as they turned into it and began to jog along, avoiding the small brown deposits left by the local dogs, they heard the
urgent revving of a car engine and the squeal of tyres coming from the direction of Shellmer’s cottage. She’d got away.
They ran back down the footpath and stood helpless, staring after a small blue car that was disappearing down the road at
considerable speed.
‘Now I wonder who that was,’ said Gerry Heffernan. ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said Wesley, scratching his head.
My well beloved wife,
I hear grievous news from the Earl’s messengers that the Earl of Warwick is dead, killed in battle at Barnet with Lord Montague
and many other knights, esquires and noblemen, and that our rightful sovereign, King Henry VI, is captured and held in the
Tower of London while the usurper who calls himself Edward IV rules.
There is word that Queen Margaret and her son have landed, not at Tradmouth as we expected, but at Weymouth along the coast,
after spending a long time at sea for lack of good winds.
I travel to join the Earl of Devon at Cerne Abbas, and daily the ranks of the Queen’s army are swelled as there are many in
the West who favour King Henry’s cause above all others.
Do not worry overmuch about my son, John, and his influence upon Elizabeth. He is young and headstrong as was I at his age.
I will have words with him on my return. And, dear wife, do not concern yourself for my safety but pray always that our just
cause doth prosper. Your most loving husband Richard
Written at Dorchester this eighteenth day of April 1471
Lewis Hoxworthy walked to the end of the jetty. There were rows of boats tied up, gyrating wildly on the dark, rough water.
They looked dangerous, out of control, as if they could slip their moorings at any moment. He shivered and pulled his coat
closer around him. The journey on the ferry had been bad enough; his stomach had churned with the waves as the fine spray
froze his face.
The sky was dark grey and there was fine drizzle in the air. Lewis shivered again and thrust his hands into his pockets. Was
this wise? Should he have told someone where he was going?
Audentes fortuna iuvat
. Fortune favours the brave. It was his school motto, embroidered onto the pocket of his blazer. Not that he and his friends
studied Latin at school but, when Yossa and his mates weren’t about, he had asked his history teacher what it meant and she
had told him willingly, glad that someone was taking an interest. He took a deep breath of salty air.
Audentes fortuna iuvat
. It seemed rather appropriate now.
He checked the inside pocket of his coat. It was still there. Walking slowly back along the wooden jetty, he looked at each
boat in turn, searching for the name on the stern.
Then he saw it. The
Henry of Lancaster
. It was a substantial yacht, its gleaming white hull immaculate and its deck spotless. Someone looked after this vessel,
probably loved it. It reminded Lewis of a toy yacht that had been his pride and joy when he was young. So perfect, the sails
so tightly and neatly furled. But this was no toy. Near the top of the mast he could see the discreet bulge of an expensive
radar system and GPS. This craft could probably cross the Atlantic if its skipper felt so inclined.
There was no sign of life on board and Lewis hesitated, uncertain what to do next. There was something final about stepping
aboard a boat. To board a boat was to trust its skipper, and Lewis wasn’t sure whether he was willing to
leave dry land and fall hostage to the whim of … who?
H. Lancaster.
Henry of Lancaster
. He had used the boat’s name, not his own. Lewis, suddenly fearful, began to back away. It had seemed a good idea in the
cosy security of his bedroom. But now it was beginning to rain. And he wanted to go home.
He turned to face the town. There were people walking along the quayside; people hurrying in and out of the shops; people
standing around talking; boat owners walking back to their craft with carrier bags full of victuals; a small fishing boat
tying up, laden with crab baskets. Normality. He touched the package in his pocket and started to walk back towards the worn
stone steps that led upward to safety.
‘Lewis. Is it Lewis?’
It was a man’s voice, deep and resonant. Lewis turned round.
‘I’ve been waiting for you, Lewis. Come aboard. Have you got it?’
Lewis swallowed hard and nodded. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Come on. Come aboard.’
Lewis Hoxworthy turned and walked slowly back towards the boat.
The man lay there, pale and naked, on the stainless-steel table. Wesley Peterson took a deep breath, but this was a mistake.
As he inhaled, the stench of blood, death and air freshener made him feel slightly sick. He glanced at Gerry Heffernan, who
was standing beside him watching the procedure keenly, arms folded, seemingly without a care in the world.
The fact that most of Wesley’s immediate family were doctors made no difference. He was squeamish and he wasn’t afraid to
admit it. He must be a throwback, he thought: the medical gene must have passed him by.
The same couldn’t be said of Dr Laura Kruger, who
conducted the post-mortem with effortless efficiency, but without Colin Bowman’s habitual social chitchat. Wesley looked away,
thinking with some regret that he would miss Colin’s gourmet refreshments and pleasant small talk afterwards. The luxurious
little indulgences that Colin happily shared in his well-appointed office somehow made the whole unpleasant business easier
to bear.
‘Well, I think I can safely say the cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head, fired at close range; very neat hole in
the forehead. The bullet went straight through. Want to see the exit wound?’ Laura Kruger was about to turn the corpse when
Wesley shook his head.
Gerry Heffernan looked a little disappointed. ‘Any idea what kind of gun it came from? Time of death?’
‘I estimate he died some time on Wednesday, late afternoon or evening. Sorry I can’t be more accurate. And as for the gun
I’d say a smallish pistol. The bullet would tell us more.’
‘They’ve done a fingertip search of the field and nothing’s been found. Anything else interesting?’
Laura stood back and looked at the body. Lying there, Shellmer seemed older than he had done when they first found him. Without
the youthful clothing he looked lined and haggard. ‘His hair’s dyed,’ Laura added helpfully. ‘I reckon it’s completely grey.’
‘We all have our little vanities,’ said Wesley, thinking she was being a little hard on the dead man.
‘And he wasn’t a healthy specimen. He was definitely a smoker. His heart and lungs were in a bit of a state.’
‘Too much sex, drugs and rock and roll,’ said Heffernan cheerfully.
‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised,’ said Laura, smiling at the chief inspector for the first time. ‘But they weren’t what killed
him.’
‘Is there anything else we ought to know?’ asked Wesley as Laura began to sew the body back up with neat precision.
‘The body was definitely moved some time after death, possibly not long before it was found; that’s probably why you haven’t
found the bullet. I examined the clothing. Apart from traces of grass, mud and pollen where he’d come into contact with the
ground, there are fibres adhering to the trousers which look like red wool. Probably from a carpet, but that’s just a guess.
We’ll have to see what forensics come up with, but I think he was lying on a carpet for some time before he was moved. Interesting.’
Wesley and Heffernan exchanged looks. ‘Very interesting,’ said Wesley. ‘So if we can find this carpet …’
‘You’ll have found the scene of the murder. There were some fibres of other colours too, which means the carpet was probably
patterned but predominantly red. And it was a pure wool rug or carpet, good quality I should think.’
Gerry Heffernan looked at the young woman, obviously impressed. ‘You’ve done a good job there, love.’ Credit where credit
was due.
Laura looked up from her stitching. ‘Thanks, Gerry,’ she said with a grin.
Neil Watson pulled up outside the Petersons’ modern detached house above Tradmouth and checked his hand-brake. The road was
steep, as were most of the roads in the town, and he wondered whether he could trust the little yellow Mini to stay put. He
saw Pam’s VW Golf in the driveway and decided to take the risk.
She looked harassed as she opened the front door, as if she were expecting an unwanted call from a doorstep salesman. Her
expression softened a little when she recognised Neil, and she stood aside to let him in.
‘Wes not about?’
She led the way into the kitchen and glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘You’ll be lucky. There’s been a murder out at Derenham
and I’m not expecting him back till late. In fact I’m not usually back this soon, but we got back early from a school trip
and I didn’t feel too well so I came
home.’ She looked at a mountain of files on the kitchen table. ‘But I’ve still got an evening’s work ahead of me. And I’ve
got to pick Michael up in an hour from his child-minder, so I can’t be long.’ She rubbed her eyes.
‘You don’t look too good,’ was Neil’s only comment.
‘Thanks a lot,’ Pam replied, sinking into a chair. ‘I’ll be okay. But I’ve got to keep an eye on the time.’
Neil, oblivious to the urgencies of the Petersons’ family life, sat down at the table and made himself comfortable. ‘I saw
Wes flashing past in a cop car yesterday. Don’t know if he saw me. I left a message for him with that Rachel this morning.’
Pam nodded. She’d met the cool, blonde Rachel a few times, briefly, and hadn’t quite made up her mind whether she approved
of her or not. Wesley spoke well, even fondly, of her. This was enough to make Pam reserve her judgement.
‘I’ve not seen my husband since he went out this morning.’
‘Well, that’s the price you pay for being a copper’s wife.’ Neil grinned mischievously and Pam avoided his eyes.
‘Maybe,’ she muttered. ‘What did you want to see him about?’
Neil looked at her sheepishly. ‘Actually it was you I really wanted to see. We’re doing a dig down at Derenham. Some workmen
were digging the foundations for a new village hall in a field near the church and they found the remains of an old building
with a skull buried next to it.’
Pam raised her eyebrows. She had heard this story before from Wesley.
‘One of the men took the skull down to the cop shop in a carrier bag, and when Wes went to see where it had been found he
had a look at the stonework the digger had uncovered and he gave me a call. I arranged a geophysics survey, and now we think
there could be a whole medieval manorial complex there – a real high-status site. And it looks like the
skull’s medieval and all, but we’ve not found the rest of the body yet.’
His eyes glowed with enthusiasm. Pam’s head was swimming, but she didn’t like to interrupt. ‘And then at the other end of
the village there’s this huge painting in a medieval barn. The experts are as sure as they can be that it’s late medieval,
probably a Doom from a church.’
‘A what?’
‘A Doom. A big lurid picture of hell and the Last Judgement that was put at the front of the church to terrify the peasants.’
Pam shuddered. ‘I think it’d terrify me. Where did it come from?’
‘We don’t know yet.’ He paused, looking Pam in the eye. ‘Have you heard of the Paston Letters? A load of gossipy letters written
by a well-to-do Norfolk family in the fifteenth century, all about their everyday life?’
Pam nodded. ‘I read something about them once. Why?’
‘When I was in Exeter someone mentioned some letters written in the fifteenth century by a family called Merrivale who were
lords of the manor of Derenham. Apparently a Victorian vicar of Derenham who fancied himself as a bit of an antiquary discovered
them and had them published, but nobody seems to know what happened to the originals. He died suddenly at what was then the
vicarage, and I suppose a lot of his things got lost or thrown out.’
‘So you’re trying to track them down?’ said Pam, wishing he’d get to the point.
‘If we could get hold of the Victorian edition of the letters they might give us some clues about this manor house we’re digging
up. It’s likely that it belonged to the Merrivales and …’
Pam nodded, her eyes on her watch. Neil lived life at his own slow pace and she lived another, more pressured existence. She
was sure he hadn’t just come round to tell her about his latest project. He must want something, and she wished he’d get to
the point.
‘I thought you might be interested in tracking down these Merrivale letters. You made a great job of translating that old
Anglo-Saxon document … remember?’ he said, trying flattery.
‘I was still on maternity leave then. I wasn’t working.’
Neil didn’t pick up the reproach in her words. He continued, ‘Do you still see that friend of yours who works in the library?
Anne, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t get much time for a social life these days.’
She detected a brief glimmer of disappointment in Neil’s eyes. In more leisured times she had once tried a spot of matchmaking
between her widowed friend, Anne, and Neil, but nothing had come of it. If only she hadn’t been quite so exhausted, she would
have been pleased he was taking an interest.
‘I was wondering whether there’s still an edition of the Merrivale letters somewhere in the library system. I could ask Anne
myself, I suppose.’
Pam forced herself to smile. ‘Good idea, Neil. You do that. I’ll give you her phone number.’
‘Yeah.’ He gave a shy grin. ‘But I think it’d be better coming from you. Er, these things might not be easy to track down,
and asking a favour’s always better coming from a friend. Don’t you think? And she probably won’t even remember me.’