He was sitting outside in the garden, feet up on the sunlounger watching the children playing in their plastic sandpit, when
he heard the telephone ring inside the house. A few moments later Pam emerged from the French windows, carrying the handset
as if it was something dirty. ‘It’s for you. A Professor Demancour. The station gave him your home number,’ she said with
obvious disapproval.
Wesley took the handset, suddenly feeling a burst of new energy rushing through his body. ‘Hello, Professor. What can I do
for you?’
‘There is something I should have told you. Something that troubles me. Can we meet?’
When Wesley ended the call he stood up stiffly and called to Pam that he was going out. Before she could raise any objections,
he had climbed into the car and backed out of the drive. Demancour was at home and was expecting him.
The professor seemed subdued and rather preoccupied as he admitted Wesley to his flat. He said nothing as he led him through
to the living room and Wesley felt impatient to know what it was that he wanted to tell him.
‘I’ve kept something from you,’ Demancour began. ‘I know I should have told you when you questioned me but—’
‘What is it?’
There was a long pause. Then he walked across the room to the cupboard where he’d kept his precious book and took out a file.
‘The manuscript Nadia was working on when she died,’ he said, placing it in front of Wesley. ‘It’s about Jeanne de Grendalle.
She did a great deal of research and made some interesting discoveries. This is just the first draft.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me about this before?’
Demancour’s face turned red. ‘Please don’t think badly of me but I was tempted to use her discoveries in my own work. But
I realise now that it would be wrong.’
Wesley said nothing. He opened the file and began to read through the sheets of paper.
The manuscript was typed, double-spaced. It was all there, the story of how Jeanne and Stephen had met and fled France. Of
how he had brought her to his estates at Queenswear and how she had been baptised into the Catholic church, rejecting her
Cathar faith. Some of it came from Nadia’s imagination, some from historical records. But the letters from Urien de Norton
had been real enough. They had been found amongst other papers in the archives. Urien de Norton had planted seeds of jealousy
in Stephen’s mind by telling him that Jeanne had been seen with Walter Fitzallen, the local entrepreneur and the man who had
begun the rise in Tradmouth’s prosperity by turning the town from a small fishing community into an international port.
There seemed to be no solid evidence of Jeanne’s
infidelity but that was clearly what de Norton was hinting at. She had been seen with Fitzallen meeting in secret, whispering
in corners. Wesley wondered what de Norton’s motives were. He was obviously some distant relative of de Grendalle’s so did
he hope for an inheritance? Then he thought of Karl Maplin and his love of gossip, stirring the pot for his own entertainment,
feeding emotions that had led to murder. Some people just got their kicks that way.
‘Did you know that Jeanne survived the fire?’ said Demancour. ‘Records exist that indicate she entered the convent at Stokeworthy.
She became a nun.’
‘What year?’
‘1212. Stephen died in 1218. He was buried at Morre Abbey. It wasn’t uncommon for widows to enter a religious house, but a
married woman … Perhaps he did try to kill her and then she chose to take the veil.’
Wesley smiled. The explanation seemed far-fetched but, taken together with all the other facts, it also seemed likely. He
knew that the dovecot had burned down at some point in its history – the archaeology confirmed that much. But perhaps some
imaginative person in the past had put two and two together and come up with completely the wrong conclusion. Perhaps it was
just a case of a married couple separating. Perhaps the fire had nothing to do with it.
‘We’ll never know for sure,’ said Wesley.
‘But you know who killed Nadia?’
‘Oh, yes. We know that. But he’s dead.’
‘Why did he …?’
Wesley took a deep breath and recited the facts. ‘He
also tried to kill Ian Rowe,’ he added. ‘But he got the wrong man.’
‘Now that wouldn’t have been a great loss to the world,’ Demancour said bitterly.
Wesley didn’t answer. ‘If there’s nothing else you want to tell me …’
‘No. I just felt you should know about Nadia’s manuscript. I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time.’
‘Oh, you haven’t,’ Wesley said. ‘In fact, you’ve done me a favour.’
On his way home he called in to the police station. He needed to get back to normal.
Sir Martin Crace had asked to see DI Peterson. He wanted to thank him personally for saving his life.
Eva Liversedge had been replaced by another PA. She had taken early retirement, Wesley was told, as the replacement, a younger
version of the original, led him to the inner sanctum. The words ‘on a very generous pension’ were left unsaid but Wesley
was certain that Eva’s loyalty, however over-enthusiastic and ill-judged, wouldn’t have gone unrewarded.
Sir Martin looked well. But then, like Wesley, he’d had a month to recover from his ordeal. Wesley felt that his own recovery
was now complete. It was only the scarring on his arm that remained, ugly and disfiguring. From now on he’d feel self-conscious
about wearing short sleeves in the summer, although Pam had come round to saying that he should be proud of his marks of battle.
Sir Martin bore no scars. He’d been fortunate. He stood up as Wesley entered and held out his hand.
Wesley took it and shook it firmly.
‘I felt I had to thank you personally, Inspector. You were a hero. I believe you’re to receive a commendation for bravery.’
Wesley smiled modestly but didn’t answer. The truth was, he had come to find the whole thing rather embarrassing. He didn’t
feel like a hero. He felt scared and angry and frustrated with the system. In short, he felt as he supposed everyone else
felt. He was tempted to say he felt like a fraud but he decided against it.
Eva’s replacement brought coffee – a cafetière and two cups. Wesley breathed in the aroma. For ages he’d only been able to
smell smoke, and fresh-ground coffee was a treat.
‘When I was coming up the drive I noticed that you’ve had the cottage demolished.’
‘I thought it best,’ Crace said as he poured the coffee. There was a long silence, as though he was wondering how to tackle
a thorny subject. When Wesley was sipping his coffee he finally spoke.
‘I’ve been wondering whether to confide in you, Wesley. I may call you Wesley, may I? Inspector sounds so formal.’
Wesley nodded, wondering what was coming.
‘Do I have your assurance that what I’m about to tell you stays within these four walls?’
‘If it doesn’t involve a criminal offence, yes.’
‘You knew Ian Rowe from university, I believe.’
‘Yes, but we were never friends.’
‘And you know about his claims … that I was his father?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you wonder why I avoided taking a DNA test?’
Wesley didn’t answer.
‘The truth is, if you have any influence with him at all, I’d appreciate it if you could persuade him to drop the matter.’
Wesley stared at Crace for a few seconds. ‘May I ask why?’
Crace arched his fingers. He was thinking. After a long silence he spoke. ‘Can I rely on your discretion, Wesley? Can you
assure me that you won’t pass on anything I say even if you might consider it a technical breach of the law?’
‘I can be discreet but I can’t make any promises.’ He looked Crace in the eye. ‘You are Rowe’s father, aren’t you? I can even
see the resemblance.’
Crace sighed and sank back in his chair. ‘Look, Wesley, the last thing I want is for the press to get hold of it. Ian’s mother
was fourteen at the time. A very mature fourteen and she assured me she was older. All I want is to ensure that Ian doesn’t
come back and try to rake over the whole business again. Can you imagine what would happen if the tabloids got a whiff of
the story? I have my reputation to think about, Wesley. And that’s so important to my charitable work. How could I stand up
at a UNICEF meeting when it was plastered over the front pages that I’d made a fourteen-year-old girl pregnant?’
‘It was a long time ago. And the woman’s dead. It would never come to court.’
‘What does that matter to a tabloid editor? I want
you to keep in touch with Rowe and if he ever attempts to revive his accusations, I want you to persuade him that he’s wasting
his time. You could remind him that I won’t hesitate to sue for slander if he persists.’
Wesley said nothing. He could see Crace watching him anxiously, waiting for his agreement.
Crace gave him a forced smile. ‘Now, have you thought about where you and your family would like to go for that holiday? I’d
make sure no expense was spared, of course, that goes without saying.’ He smiled. ‘How about the Caribbean? The best hotels,
of course. Or perhaps a cruise?’
Wesley stood up. ‘Thank you for the coffee, Sir Martin,’ he said. ‘But I think I’ll have to decline your offer.’
He knew Crace was watching him as he walked the long walk across the Turkish carpet. He’d often wondered what it was like
to be bribed and now he knew. It was strangely tempting. But he couldn’t live with himself if he caved in. However, he wasn’t
sure how he was going to explain his decision to Pam. Or what he’d do if Ian Rowe appeared in his life again. He’d just have
to hope and pray that the situation never arose.
He drove back to Tradmouth, a smile on his lips. The moral high ground was a good place to be.
The CID office was fairly quiet on his return. The tourist season was drawing to an end but valuables were still disappearing
from yachts berthed in the harbour and there was a spate of burglaries at holiday
apartments to clear up, so some of the team were out conducting interviews.
But as soon as he walked into the office Gerry Heffernan bore down on him, a worried look on his face. Something had happened.
Without a word the two men hurried to Gerry’s office and sat down.
‘Just had a call from the coastguard,’ Gerry began. ‘A body’s been washed up near Bloxham. Been in the water a month or so,
Colin reckons. Young woman. Not very recognisable but what’s left of her fits the description of that missing Lithuanian lass.
Anya.’
Wesley bowed his head.
‘I told Colin we’d get over there.’
Wesley followed the DCI out. It was best not to mention Crace’s little dilemma. Not when there was murder to deal with.
Other gripping titles
in
Kate Ellis’
Wesley Peterson series
available from
Piatkus
:
The brutal massacre of the Harford family at Potwoolstan Hall in Devon in 1985 shocked the country and passed into local folklore.
And when a journalist researching the case is murdered twenty years later, the horror is reawakened. Sixteenth century Potwoolstan
Hall, now a New Age healing centre, is reputed to be cursed because of the crimes of its builder, and it seems that inheritance
of evil lives on as DI Wesley Peterson is faced with his most disturbing case yet.
As more people die violently, Wesley needs to discover why a young woman has transformed a dolls house into a miniature reconstruction
of the massacre scene. And could the solution to his case lie across the Atlantic Ocean, in the ruined remains of an early
English settlement in Virginia USA?
When the truth is finally revealed, it turns out to be as horrifying as it is dangerous.
978-0-7499-3606-8
‘A beguiling author’
The Times
When Kirsten Harbourn is found strangled and naked on her wedding day, DI Wesley Peterson makes some alarming discoveries.
Kirsten was being pursued by an obsessed stalker and she had dark secrets her doting fiancé, Peter, knew nothing about.
But Kirsten’s wasn’t the only wedding planned to take place that July day in South Devon. At Morbay register office a terrified
young girl makes her wedding vows. And a few days later her bridegroom is found dead in a seedy seaside hotel. As Wesley investigates
he suspects that his death and his bride’s subsequent disappearance might be linked to Kirsten’s murder.
Meanwhile the skeleton of a young female is found buried in a field that once belonged to the family of Ralph Strong, an Elizabethan
playwright whose play, ‘The Fair Wife of Padua’ is to be performed for the first time in four hundred years. Is this bloodthirsty
play a confession to a murder committed in the reign of Queen Elizabeth 1? Or does it tell another story, one that might cast
light on recent mysteries?
978-0-7499-3702-7
Little Marcus Fallbrook was kidnapped in 1976 and when he never returned home, his grieving family assumed the worst. Then,
thirty years later, teenage singing star Leah Wakefield disappears and DI Wesley Peterson has reason to suspect that the same
kidnapper is responsible.
But then Marcus Fallbrook returns from the dead. And when DNA evidence confirms his identity, the investigation takes a new
twist. Meanwhile, archaeologist, Neil Watson’s gruesome task of exhuming the dead from a local churchyard yields a mystery
of its own when a coffin is found to contain one corpse too many – a corpse that may be linked to a strange religious sect
dating back to Regency times.
Wesley has his hands full elsewhere – slowly, Marcus Fallbrook begins to recover memories that Wesley hopes will lead him
to cunning and dangerous murderer. But he is about to discover that the past can be a very dangerous place indeed.
978-0-7499-3809-3
Never has DI Wesley Peterson witnessed such a bizarre crime scene. The victim, Charles Marrick, has been murdered, his body
drained of blood. Described by those who knew him as ‘evil’, it seems that Wesley isn’t going to have any shortage of suspects
– until a popular local vet is murdered in an identical fashion … and a third body is discovered many miles away.