‘Delighted to meet you,’ Maplin said, glancing at
the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I have a lecture in an hour but if I’m late I’m sure it will amuse my students no end to hear
that I’ve been helping the police with their enquiries. Now how can I help you, gentlemen?’
‘You said on the phone that you’ve kept a lot of photographs of digs you’ve worked at over the years.’
‘Indeed I have.’
‘You also said that Maggie’s son helped on one occasion.’
‘Just the once if I remember rightly – in the late seventies, I think it was. He’d have been in his teens and his mother was
trying to get him interested in something constructive. He was a difficult young man, not one of nature’s archaeologists as
I recall. And unfortunately it wasn’t a particularly spectacular site – just a couple of pieces of Iron Age pottery. Quite
disappointing from his point of view, I should imagine.’
‘I take it he lived with Maggie.’
‘No, as a matter of fact he didn’t. I remember that quite clearly and it didn’t really surprise me as I would never have thought
of Maggie as the maternal type. Maggie had given birth to him when she was a student and left it to her sister to bring him
up. As far as I know, the sister was a good deal older and had a large family of her own so I don’t suppose an extra one was
too much of an inconvenience. But really, that’s all I know.’
‘What about the boy’s father?’
Maplin leaned forward confidentially. ‘I’ve no idea. Even my radar for gossip couldn’t detect that one,’ he
added with a mischievous smirk. ‘I was always convinced that Maggie was otherwise inclined sexually speaking so maybe the
son was the result of an experiment of some kind. We all make mistakes, don’t we?’
‘Do you remember the boy’s name?’
Maplin closed his eyes. ‘Matthew … Martin … Michael. I’m sure it was something beginning with M. But I can’t be sure after all
these years.’
‘You don’t happen to know the sister’s surname, do you?’
‘Sorry.’
‘But you do have a photo of the boy?’ Wesley felt they were getting so near. Just a few more steps and they’d be there.
‘I very much doubt it.’
‘I mean a group photograph taken at the dig he was on.’
Maplin hesitated. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said and left the room. After a few minutes he returned with an armful of battered
photograph albums and let them fall on the dining table with a clatter. ‘Now which dig was it?’ he mumbled to himself, flicking
through the pages.
Wesley and Gerry could do nothing but watch as he studied photograph after photograph, punctuating the silence with small
chuckles of delight when he came across some particularly rewarding memory.
‘Oh, there’s Cher Bakewell,’ he said, pointing to a picture of a pretty teenage girl. Wesley hardly liked to tell him that
Sheryl Bright, née Bakewell, was now languishing in the cells, accused of murdering her
husband.
‘And here’s one of Maggie with … yes, that’s him. Nineteen seventy-seven, that was – site near Exmouth. As I said, it was the
only time he came with her on a dig.’
Wesley took the album and studied the photograph, Gerry looking over his shoulder.
They stared at the image in silence for a minute or so. There was something vaguely familiar about the boy. But had Wesley
seen him recently, over thirty years older and with considerably less hair? Or was it his imagination? He caught Gerry’s eye
and knew that the DCI was as puzzled as he was.
Perhaps if he stared at the face of that nondescript young man long enough it might come to him.
Sir Martin didn’t know whether to take anyone with him when he tackled the problem. To take one of his security staff might
seem rather heavy-handed. Eva was the obvious choice, of course, but he was no longer sure whether he could trust her.
No, this needed delicate handling. Discretion. He would go alone.
He was expecting a telephone call from his Paris headquarters in ten minutes. When he’d dealt with that he’d act.
The visit couldn’t be put off much longer. Not after what he’d just learned.
‘Why don’t you have another word with Sheryl Bright?’ Gerry asked as he took his jacket off and flung
it on to his coat stand, where by some miracle it stayed hanging.
Wesley watched him, his mind elsewhere, still wondering whether he had really seen Maggie’s son somewhere recently, many years
older now, middle-aged in fact, with all the inevitable changes wrought by time on his face and body. Or perhaps it was just
his imagination.
Gerry interrupted his thoughts. ‘Tell you what, let’s both speak to Sheryl. I want to know what really went on at that dig
of Maggie March’s at Grandal Field. If you’re right and it was Wendy in that burning car—’
‘It means Maggie killed her then stopped any questions being asked by faking her suicide. And it means that Maggie probably
assumed a new identity.’
‘Unless she killed herself out of remorse.’
‘Then there’d be no point in the charade of the suicide note and the burning car. No, Maggie March wanted to survive.’
‘She could be anywhere.’
‘Not if she killed Nadia Lucas when she was getting too close to the truth.’
‘We know that private detective, Forsyte Wiley, didn’t have much luck.’
‘But Nadia carried on the investigation on her own, remember. She had all those photos in her locker. She’d been round to
some of the people involved in the dig asking questions.’
‘But nobody knew anything.’
‘What if she stumbled on Maggie, the woman who was supposed to be dead? Or Maggie’s son? We need
to find out about Maggie’s sister. What was her name and where are her children now? The family are our best bet, I’m sure
of it.’
Wesley suddenly felt despondent. Tracing Maggie March’s unnamed sister and her brood might take some time. They didn’t even
know whereabouts in the country they lived. In fact by now they could be anywhere in the world.
After issuing his orders and receiving a groan from Nick Tarnaby, who complained that tracing family trees wasn’t his idea
of modern policing, Wesley arranged for Sheryl Bright to be brought to the interview room. He was probably doing her a favour,
he thought. After spending hour upon hour in those cells in the station basement, she’d be glad of a change of scene.
As she took a seat opposite him, she looked defiant and demanded her solicitor.
‘I don’t want to talk about your husband’s murder this time, Mrs Bright,’ Wesley said quietly. He wanted her to regard him
as a sympathetic ear. He wanted her to remember. ‘I want to talk about that dig you took part in at Queenswear in 1983.’
‘Oh, that again,’ she said impatiently. ‘I’ve told you everything I know already. I can’t help you.’
‘You thought Maggie March and Wendy Haskel were an item?’
She nodded. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Do you remember Karl Maplin?’
‘Yes. I remember him.’
‘Why are you smiling?’
‘Oh, he was a terrible gossip, always stirring it. Men
can be worse than women sometimes. And he was the worst of the lot.’
‘Could he have told Maggie that Wendy and you …?’
‘That’d be nonsense. But I wouldn’t have put it past him. I think he got his kicks out of making mischief. He saw it as entertainment.’
‘But what if Maggie had believed him?’
Sheryl thought for a moment, screwing up her face in an effort to recall something. ‘You know, you could be on to something
there. Maggie March was fine with me at first then suddenly she turned really bitchy, giving me all the worst jobs and … It’s
probably what put me off the idea of archaeology for life. She was such a bitch.’
‘And that letter you had from the hospital shortly after Maggie March’s death – you don’t happen to remember what department
the appointment was for, do you?’
‘I think it was for the burns unit. Why?’
Wesley felt like kissing her. But she was under arrest for murder so it would have been inappropriate, to say the least.
‘Hi, Neil, how’s it going?’
Neil sat at his desk in his site office cum church hall and pressed his mobile phone to his ear. If Annabel, who worked in
the county archives, had taken the trouble to call, it meant she’d discovered something interesting.
‘Dig’s going brilliantly but things are a bit uncertain.
The developer’s been killed. Wes won’t tell me much but rumour has it he was murdered.’
‘Wasn’t you, was it?’
He could hear the giggle in Annabel’s voice.
‘No, it wasn’t. Not that I wasn’t tempted at times. Anything to report?’
‘There certainly is. I found a chronicle relating to Stokeworthy Priory in the Cathedral records.’ She paused for dramatic
effect. Neil knew this tactic of old. Something juicy was coming. ‘And it looks as if your lady from Minerve didn’t die after
all. There’s a record of her joining the sisters at Stokeworthy Priory. And her husband – Stephen de Grendalle isn’t it? –
gave them a bloody great donation. Guilt money perhaps.’
‘Are you absolutely sure it’s the same woman?’
‘Jeanne, lately known as Jeanne de Minerve, wife of Stephen de Grendalle. She took the veil and brought a thumping great dowry
to the priory.’
‘But all the other evidence points to the fact that she died – she burned to death in the dovecot. We’ve even found the burnt
layer.’
‘Well, sorry to disappoint you, Neil, but it looks as though she survived and got her to a nunnery.’
‘So much for local legends then.’
‘People like a good story.’ There was a long pause. Neil could almost hear Annabel’s brain working. ‘Just because she survived
it doesn’t mean she wasn’t caught in the fire. Perhaps she was disfigured. Perhaps that’s why she chose to be locked away.
Just a thought.’
Neil ended the call and walked outside. It was time to get back to the dig. And he wondered, in view of the
young woman burned to death near the site of the dovecot, whether Wesley would be interested in this new development.
The cottage on the edge of the woods. It had always reminded Martin Crace of something out of a fairy tale, pretty but vaguely
sinister.
He suddenly realised that nobody knew where he was. Eva normally kept track of his comings and goings but he had crept out
of the office without telling her where he was headed.
But it didn’t matter. He only wanted a discreet chat with his mother’s cousin, just to clarify a few things. He looked down
at the letter in his hand. There was probably a perfectly simple explanation.
He lifted the door knocker and let it fall three times.
Gerry Heffernan couldn’t think of any grounds to hold Ian Rowe for much longer, even though he wanted to, so he’d been released
on bail. Free to go … for the time being.
Wesley went down to the custody suite to say goodbye. He didn’t much like the man but he still had a sneaking feeling that
he should keep tabs on him. He had been the one Rowe had sought out to share his worries about Nadia Lucas with, after all.
He had been the one who’d started the whole business.
Rowe was just collecting his possessions when Wesley arrived and he turned to give the inspector a weary smile.
‘Well, well, Wesley. I’m being released on bail. Nice one, eh.’
‘Only because Pam and I aren’t pressing charges for breaking and entering and neither is Professor Demancour.’
‘Oh, come on, Wesley, don’t be such a prig.’
‘You will stick around. We’ll need to ask you some more questions.’
‘Yeah. Your friend here just said.’ He nodded towards the custody sergeant, who was busying himself with his paperwork. ‘I
was going to get in touch with Jack and see if any of his properties are free, but apparently I’ve got to go back to the hostel
in Morbay so they know where to find me. You’ve still got my passport. When can I have it back?’
‘In due course,’ Wesley said in official tones. If he wasn’t careful Rowe would play the old pal card and he wasn’t falling
for that again. And besides, he didn’t want Rowe skipping the country while there were still questions to be answered.
‘Any nearer finding out what happened to Nadia?’ Rowe asked as Wesley turned away.
‘Not yet.’ He saw a look of derision on Rowe’s face. Fine detective you are, it said. ‘By the way, we’ve talked to Sir Martin
Crace. He utterly denies being your father. He’s even said he’d consider taking a DNA test. If I were you, I wouldn’t bother
him again.’
‘But you’re not me, are you, Wesley?’
‘Pity those diaries you said your mother wrote got burned in the cottage.’
Rowe shrugged. ‘It makes no difference. I know what I know.’
Wesley walked out of the custody suite. If Rowe
wanted to make a fool of himself by harassing Crace, that was up to him. He’d had enough of Rowe. In fact he would be quite
happy if they never met again.
As he walked down the corridor his mobile began to ring. From the display he saw that it was Neil and he answered it, hoping
he’d learn something relevant to a case that he still found frustrating and confusing. But that was too much to hope. Neil’s
mind, as usual, was on archaeology.
He’d just made an exciting discovery about the history of his site. The woman who had supposedly been burned to death near
the spot where Nadia Lucas had met her end hadn’t died after all. She’d retired to Stokeworthy Priory and lived the rest of
her life as a nun. Neil had a theory that she’d been caught in the burning dovecot and suffered disfiguring injuries.
But fascinating though this was, it didn’t help Wesley bring Nadia’s killer to justice. But it jogged something in the recesses
of his mind. Around the time of Maggie March’s supposed accident someone had used Sheryl Bright’s name at the hospital burns
unit. Could it have been Maggie herself using the first name that came into her head, the name of the young girl she knew
from the Queenswear excavation? Could she have been injured when she set fire to the car with Wendy Haskel in it? But it was
still just a theory. He only wished he had some proof.
He told Neil he’d see him soon and ended the call just as Gerry Heffernan loomed into view down the corridor.