"The brother was there. He was playing in the garden with a neighbour's son." She thrust the badly typed statement in front of Wesley's nose. "Look at the name."
Wesley took the statement from her and began to read. "Well, well. I presume it's the same one."
"Aged twelve. That would be about right. And look at the family's name ... and the brother." Rachel's eyes gleamed. "So the dead baby's family was called Wills ... the elder brother was a Timothy. It would be too much of a coincidence if..."
"And the neighbour's son was a Philip Thewlis."
"Are you going to tell the boss or shall I?" Their eyes met and Rachel's already pretty face was illuminated by a wide smile of triumph, all resentment forgotten.
For the supper given by my lord for Lord Courtenay:
2 peacocks;
3 sheep, 5 geese; 2 pigs; sundry pies and pastries...... 4. 3.6
I June 1475
Boots for my lord Simon..................................................12.6
Gown for my lady............................................................. 15.6
6 June 1475
To the priest for burial of my lord's babe........14.0
For coffin and tomb...................................................... 3. 4.6
For masses to be said................................................... 5. 3.4
For mourning clothes................................................. 2.".8
For candles to be carried............5.6
From the household accounts of Stokeworthy Manor
Neil left his colleagues and students digging busily in the trenches. The site looked like a battle zone. No sooner had one statue been unearthed than another one was being gently uncovered with trowels and brushes. He had never seen such industry at a dig before. Egged on by the quality of the art they were bringing back into the light, and the knowledge that they were making a discovery of national importance, each digger worked swiftly and with calm enthusiasm to reunite the Jesse tree's ancient worthies with the human race.
Neil yawned as he walked towards the Manor. He had spent the previous evening reading the three volumes of the manor accounts that he had taken out of the muniment room and, unable to put them down, had eventually finished them at two in the morning.
The life of the Manor between 1475 and 1500 had unfolded before him as he had relived the visits of the local gentry and gasped at the amount of food they had managed to get through. He had mourned with Lord and Lady de Stoke at the death of their infant son in 1475 and noted with interest the payments for the burial, the mourning clothes and the prayers for his tiny soul. The baby's death had also had economic repercussions for two village families. Not only were the wet nurse Felicia de Monte's services no longer required but Alice de Neston, the baby's nursemaid, no longer appeared on the payroll. There were several mentions of a Lord Simon, presumably the baby's elder brother, the lucky recipient of the pony. As Neil had read through the accounts he had come to the point when the old lord of the manor died his funeral being a lavish affair with many tapers burning in the church and Masses said for his soul and his son took over the running of the estates. It was this son, Simon, who had commissioned Thomas de Monte, the local stone carver to create the Jesse tree for the church.
Neil found himself thinking about the skeleton, the unknown woman who had lain near the cross roads in the unmarked, unhallowed grave, so close to the Jesse tree's beautifully carved figures. Who had she been ... and why had she been hanged by the neck in this quiet Devon village at such a tender age? But unless there was something in the Manor court rolls about the girl's death, her fate and identity would remain a mystery.
He neared the Manor, struck once more by its beauty. This was one house he would never tire of seeing. The de Stokes had built it. In 1542, on the death of Lord Simon, who had left no heir, it had passed to a distant cousin. Sic transit gloria mundi, thought Neil in a rare fit of philosophising.
He walked quickly round to the back of the Manor to replace the account books before calling on Philip Thewlis. Squirrel hadn't seen him go out that morning so, presumably, he'd be working in his fully equipped office in what used to be the Manor's courtroom. It was a fair bet that the Manor library would contain a translation of the court rolls. It was the obvious place to look. He knocked on the front door, knowing that the tradesman's entrance would be more fitting for one of his mud-stained appearance, but there was no way he was going to play the importunate peasant to Philip Thewlis's lord of the manor. Neil
Watson, field archaeologist heading the Stokeworthy excavations, would use the main entrance.
Caroline Thewlis answered the door, elegant in flowing black trousers and an expensive grey jersey tunic. She smiled and asked how the dig was progressing. Neil, sensing he was on a winning streak, lost no time in making his request.
"No problem. Of course you can look in the library. Borrow what you like. Feel free."
This was what Neil wanted to hear. "Are you sure your husband won't mind?" he asked, thinking this was too easy.
"He doesn't have to know," she whispered conspiratorially.
"Where is he?" As soon as Neil had asked the question he knew he'd gone too far. It was really none of his business.
Caroline didn't take offence. Quite the reverse. "I've really no idea. He disappeared without a word about an hour ago. He could be somewhere around the house, but ..." She looked at Neil appraisingly and touched his T-shirt. "It's a big house. You can get up to anything in this house and nobody's any the wiser." There was a hint of suggestion in her voice. She looked him straight in the eye.
Neil swallowed hard. "I mustn't be long away from the dig. Er, if I could just have a look in the library
Then perhaps you could have a little look at my bedroom. There're some rather interesting carvings on the fireplace. I'm sure you'd find them ..."
Neil had thought he was imagining things at first. Now he knew he wasn't. Caroline Thewlis was an attractive woman. He didn't know whether it was the thought of her husband lurking behind the oak panelling which was putting him off or the fact that he felt like the pursued rather than the pursuer, but the library suddenly acquired a new allure. "I'm sorry, but I really do have work to do."
She gave a meaningful half-smile. "That's fine, but the offer still stands ... any time."
She watched Neil as he made his escape. He could feel her eyes on his back, and it was with some relief that he entered the low-beamed library and shut the door behind him. He looked around. The book-lined room was cosy. A fine Elizabethan fireplace graced one wall and the leaded windows, curtained in warm red velvet, let in shafts of dappled sunlight. The armchairs and sofa near the fireplace were worn and comfortably faded.
Neil approved: if he could ever afford a library of his own, it would be exactly like this. He looked around the walls; row upon row of books, the sort of venerable volumes always found in the libraries of great houses. No cheap paperbacks here: if the Thewlises went in for thrillers or bonkbusters they kept them strictly out of sight.
Nell's eyes began to ache as he examined the titles on the wall opposite the fireplace. This was harder than he'd anticipated. Each tooled leather spine seemed to merge into the next. But he had to carry on; be systematic. He rubbed his eyes and continued. There were some interesting titles: county histories, works of local antiquaries. He was tempted to take them down and see what juicy snippets of historical information they contained, but he controlled his scholarly urges. He was looking for one thing and one thing only.
It was half an hour before he found it. "Proceedings of the Manor Court of Stokeworthy. Volume 1:1450-1500' was an unimpressive volume but he took it down off from the shelf with glee and opened it carefully. The Victorian scholar who had translated it from the obscure legal Latin had done a good job, he thought. Caroline Thewlis had said he could borrow what he liked, so he tucked the bulky volume under his arm and marched from the library, feigning a confidence he didn't feel. He would let himself out quietly, as he had no desire to encounter Philip Thewlis ... or his wife, for that matter.
Tiptoeing down the corridor that led from the library to the front door, he passed a door, half open. An urgent whisper from within caused him to stop and stand, breath held, trying not to betray his presence. There were two people in the room, a man and a woman. He could see the woman but the man was out of view. He recognised the woman as the nanny he had rather liked the look of Gemma Matherley. The desperation in her voice told him that this was no cosy chat. He could make out the odd sentence.
"The police have been here... I could tell them I saw you. Why shouldn't I?"
The man's replies were inaudible, deep and muffled. Although Neil had thought at first that it was Thewlis, he now began to have his doubts. The voice was unfamiliar. Gemma moved out of sight and Neil took the opportunity to move off quietly towards the front door. When he was outside he took a deep breath, looked at the dusty volume in his hand and smiled.
"So," said Gerry Heffernan, leaning back precariously in his chair, "Philip Thewlis is an old friend of this MP fellow."
"He's not an MP yet," corrected Wesley. "Just a candidate. And his parents, the parents of this dead baby, have got a place next door to Timothy and Jane Wills at Worthy Court."
"Has anyone been to the Wheatsheaf to check Stoke-Brown's alibi?"
"Yes. It seems the landlady remembers him quite well ... not one of her regulars, she said, but he did chat her up. I think, reading between the lines, she rather fancied him. She said he was with another man. They did a lot of talking, she said, and Stoke-Brown handed the other man a carrier bag."
"Curiouser and curiouser. At least it gives him an alibi for Friday night. Wonder why he didn't mention he was with someone." Heffernan's mind returned to the Wills family. "Who spoke to these Willses, then?"
Wesley had the report to hand. "PC Johnson and WPC Walton took a statement. The Willses had arrived at Worthy Court from London around six thirty on the night Pauline died and were with their daughter-in-law all evening ... until after midnight when Mr. Wills senior and Jane Wills went over to the pool with Mr. and Mrs. Bentley to complain about D'estry's noise. Timothy Wills was at some do in Bloxham all evening."
"So the whole family have alibis?"
"It seems that way. Shall we have a word?"
"Hang on, Wcs, first things first. What have you found out about this dead baby case?"
"Pauline claimed that she left the baby to get a drink from the kitchen, then when she returned he was unconscious. The housekeeper said that she hadn't been near the kitchen and there was no drink there when she was called to the scene. The police reports confirm this. The father was dead-heading roses ... no witnesses. The mother was lying down in a darkened room with a headache ... again no witnesses. The elder boy, aged seven -Timothy, prospective MP for Bloxham was playing with a boy from the village Philip Thewlis, aged twelve, now lord of the manor of Stoke worthy."
"Where were they playing?"
"In the garden."
"Then surely ..."
"It's not what we would call a garden." Wesley grinned. "Eight acres, apparently. More like the grounds of a big house. There was a separate rose garden: that's where the father claimed to be. Then there was a wilder bit where the two boys were playing. Pauline and the baby were in a section closer to the house. I've got a plan of the garden here if you want to see it." He spread a large yellowed sheet on the desk in front of them.
"Some garden. I see what you mean. This Wills family have never been short of a bob or two, have they? Right, Wcs. I think I'd like to see this lot myself. I'll take Rach ... she's good with old ladies. I'd like you to go and see Thewlis up at the Manor. I can trust you not to frighten the horses. Take Steve ... but make sure he keeps his mouth shut."
'1 think I can handle Thewlis, sir ... and Steve seems to have been rather quiet recently."
Heffernan grinned wickedly. "I think we've got a Miss Leanne Matherley to thank for that, Wcs ... if my informants are reliable, which I'm sure they are. Meet me for lunch at the Ring o' Bells at one. We'll compare notes."
Wesley nodded. He would have liked to have tackled the Wills family himself, but he saw the wisdom of his boss's reasoning. He looked around the incident room for Steve, fearing that the journey to the Manor would be hard going.
Timothy Wills wasn't at home, nor were his wife and children. He was at a constituency meeting, his father informed the untidy Liverpudlian police inspector who stood on his doorstep, and Jane was out with the children shopping in Morbay. Mr. Wills senior was a tall, well-built man in his sixties. In his youth he had been strong and good-looking ... still was, thought Rachel, who stood behind her boss. Robert Wills had an air of authority, almost of arrogance. He was not a man who was used to being crossed ... or having his word questioned. He was several inches taller than Gerry Heffernan and stood looking down on him, straight-backed and almost defiant. When the inspector outlined the reason for their visit, Robert Wills's expression didn't change.
"I suppose you'd better come in, Inspector," he said resentfully,
standing to one side. "I would ask you not to discuss what happened in Lyme in detail in front of my wife. Even after all these years she finds the subject painful. You can understand that, can't you?"
"We'll try our best not to upset her," said Rachel gently. Heffernan looked at her gratefully.
Robert Wills led them into the sitting room, where his wife was perched on the edge of a chintz sofa, twisting a handkerchief in her fingers. Rachel sat by her.
"I'm sorry to bring this all up again, madam," Heffernan began. "But the woman who was found hanging from a tree in the churchyard last Friday was Pauline Quillon, the nanny you employed thirty years ago who was convicted of murdering your baby."