The vicar was standing by the church
door, looking as if he were preparing to shake hands with his departing
congregation. 'Neil's just taking the books out of the cupboard... shouldn't be
long.' he said. He sounded cautiously excited: the prospect of an important
historical discovery in his church intrigued him.
'Hey, Wes, look at this I've found.
There was a wooden box shoved to the back of the cupboard. This was inside.'
Neil handed Wesley a sheet of parchment. He unfolded it carefully as it was obviously
extremely old, then took it over to the table that accommodated church
magazines and other books and leaflets for sale. He pushed them to one side and
laid the parchment out flat. By this time Neil was looking over his shoulder. Heffernan
and the vicar were hovering in the background, awaiting the verdict.
'It's a will,' said Wesley, matter-of-factly.
'The last will and testament of Matthew Mallindale.'
'Come on, Wes. read it out.' urged
Neil impatiently.
'I bequeath my
soul to Almighty God and His Son Our Lord Jesus Christ and my body to be buried
wherever I chance to die,'
Wesley read slowly, deciphering the handwriting with
difficulty.
'My sins are such that I should not lie
in sanctified ground but I beg the Lord to have mercy upon me and beseech
whoever doth find my poor body to bury it in some consecrated earth though I would
not think myself fit to lie within the walls of a church.'
'Modest,' commented Heffernan.
'Very commendable humility,'
affirmed the vicar. 'Go on, Wesley ... what else does it say?'
"There's a list of his
household goods. Some go to his wife .. . his
second-best bed
.'
'They can't have got on ... why
didn't he let her have his best one?'
'His best one went to his son, Matthew,
and he got his cushions and tablecloth too.'
'Wow.' Neil was starting to lose
interest. Come on, Wes, leave that. Let's shift this cupboard.'
Reluctantly Wesley put the parchment
down and took his jacket off, ready to work. The cupboard was heavy, even
without its contents which lay scattered on the nearby pews. The Victorians certainly
knew how to build furniture of monumental proportions.
Heffernan, fearful for his back, directed operations, while the vicar valiantly
lent a hand. Between the three of them they managed to move the cupboard a
couple of yards to the left.
Neil bent down and examined the
floor. 'We've uncovered most of it. One more go .. . another few feet.'
Another effort and they stood,
regaining their breath. It was there, revealed - a slab of stone set into the
floor, six foot by two foot.
'Sacred to the
memory of Roderigo Sanchez, sailor of the ship San Miguel. Aged 17. Our enemy
but much wronged by his fellow man. Most unjustly murdered on the 1st day of
September 1588.
May the Lord avenge this wrong.'
'Bloody hell,' said Neil, forgetting
where he was. 'What the devil's he doing here?'
'Looks like we've found the Armada
boy, Wes,' Heffernan said softly.
Chapter Twelve
'And finally I beseech God to have
mercy upon me and forgive the grievous sin that stains my soul with the blood
of the innocent.'
Extract from
the will of Matthew Mallindale,
dated 5 October 1588
Rachel Tracey had lain awake all
night thinking of the visit she had to make .. . thinking of the best, the most
tactful, way of asking the necessary questions. She looked at her watch. Ten fifteen
... positively late by farming standards, where the day began at dawn. She
looked around and saw that Wesley was reading a file, apparently engrossed in
its contents. She stood up, papers in hand, and walked out of the room
casually. Wesley didn't look up. Steve was on the phone and didn't give her a second
glance.
The day was warm enough to venture
out without a coat: the jacket of her suit would be adequate to protect her
from the gentle spring elements. She had decided to walk. It wasn't far and
questions might be asked if anyone missed a car. And she didn't want
any questions asked ... not yet.
The inspector was absent: Rachel
suspected that, it being Saturday morning, he had treated himself to a spot of
sailing.
Having a think, blowing out the cobwebs; those were his usual excuses. Not that
Rachel blamed him: when she made inspector, she told herself, she might develop
similar foibles ... and be allowed to get away with them so long as her results
lived up to the super's expectations.
She had overheard a telephone
conversation between Wesley and Heffernan earlier in the day. They were
discussing some tomb or other... and some will that had been placed in a church
safe.
Wesley had finished the call with a cheery promise to see Heffernan later. She
hoped the inspector wouldn't arrive back before her mission was completed.
She left the village hall and walked
through Bereton. past the Restoricks' cottage, past the mini-market and the
church. Two ladies of a certain age were walking down the churchyard path, their
arms filled with flowers. They would be preparing for a wedding, Rachel
thought, or maybe just decorating the church for the Sunday services.
There were cars parked in the lay-by
near the chantry: the dig was still in full swing. That was another thing
Rachel didn't understand: why expend all that energy digging up the remnants of
the past when the needs of the present were so pressing?
Another ten yards or so and she came
to a farm track: a battered wooden sign announced that it led to Seafield Farm.
She hadn't realised it was so close to the chantry; that could be significant
in itself, she thought. She walked up the track warily. Her smart patent shoes
with their small heels were woefully inadequate for the terrain. She cursed
herself: a farmer's daughter should have known better.
A tractor approached and stopped.
Its driver, a swarthy man in his late thirties, quite attractive in an earthy
sort of way. leaned down from his elevated position and asked Rachel if he
could help her, his voice thick with innuendo.
'Can you tell me where I'll find a
Mrs Muriel Napp?"
'That depends." His eyes
twinkled flirtatiously. 'You'll be from the health centre.' Rachel said nothing.
'You're better-looking than the last one we had. She had a face like the back
of one of my sows.'
"If you can just tell me where
I'll find Mrs Napp ..
'She's up at the house. You'd better watch it Mum eats health visitors for
breakfast.'
He winked and drove off down the
track, churning up a mud puddle that splashed all over Rachel's tights. She
looked down at her splattered legs: she was a mess.
The farmhouse was stone-built and
symmetrical; every picture book's ideal of what a farmhouse should look like.
Rachel crossed the hay-strewn cobbles of the farmyard and knocked at the door.
She had to wait a good two minutes before the door was opened. She fixed her
eyes on the centre of the door where she expected a face to appear. Bui there
was nothing: for a split second she found herself staring into the empty hall
until she looked downwards at
the occupant of the wheelchair.
'Mrs Napp?'
The old lady nodded. 'You the new
health visitor? Come along in, my luvver. Don't you go standing on the doorstep
catching your death. You should have worn Wellington boots ... did nobody tell
you?' Mrs Napp shook her white curly head as she contemplated the
inefficiencies of the National Health Service.
Rachel produced her warrant card,
suddenly realising she should have brought someone with her, not struck out on
her own. But it was too late now. Mrs Napp's bodily frailty made her apprehensive
about questioning her about the rape: there were some scars that never healed. It
occurred to her that she should cut her losses and leave. Then Mrs Napp looked
up at her, an unexpected toughness in her bright blue eyes. 'What is it? What
do you want? I ain't robbed no banks... this chair'd never make a getaway car.'
She chuckled at her joke and Rachel dutifully joined in. "In you come and
make us a cup of tea .. . and take them shoes off.'
Rachel obeyed. Muriel Napp -
Carmichael as was — hardly fitted Rachel's mental picture of a scared rape
victim. As her son had said, she'd have eaten a health visitor for breakfast
and still had room for a policewoman. The frailty of the body belied the
toughness of the mind.
Rachel made the tea in her stockinged
feet. The old farmhouse kitchen had been adapted to suit a wheelchair user.
Muriel valued her independence. Rachel found herself admiring the woman even before
she got to know her.
As she sat down by the ancient Aga.
Muriel sitting opposite her in her wheelchair, her head tilted expectantly,
Rachel wondered how to begin.
'Go on, then, my luvver, spit it
out. What is it you want to know?"
'It's about something that happened
during the war. I found a file ... a report that you were ... er ... assaulted
by one of the..."
'I were never assaulted. That's
wrong.'
Rachel paused. She had been trying
to put it gently, but clearly semantics had got in the way. She'd have to be
more blunt. 'There was a report that you were raped. Muriel. I know it's a
painful memory and I don't want to upset you...'
She looked across at Muriel who, to
her amazement, was starting to laugh. "Oh no, my luvver, you've got it all
wrong. There's one good thing about being old ... you can speak plain. It were
my dad reported that ... when he found out I was in the family way. He was that
angry that he went off down the police station in Tradmouth and reported that
my boyfriend had raped me. He wanted his revenge, you see. I never spoke to my
dad after that... Litton would have been hanged if he'd been found guilty, do
you know that? It was just spite ... my dad wanting to punish him for what we'd
done. I told him it took two for that sort of thing but he just dragged me over
to the pump and washed my mouth out with soap."
Rachel saw the determination and
anger on Muriel's face, reawakened after fifty years. She had been expecting
one tragedy, one set of agonising memories, but she was sitting there with Muriel
Napp confronting another - very different but just as painful in its own way.
'So you weren't raped?'
'Oh no. Litton was a sergeant... bit
older than me. He was a very handsome man, and it was wartime. We didn't know
if he'd be killed that next week or ... I still don't know what became of him;
died in France most likely .. . such a waste.' She sighed.
Rachel was in a dilemma. Should she
inform Muriel that her wartime sweetheart was staying not a mile away? She told
herself that she wasn't in the business of reuniting old lovers. She said nothing.
'Anyway,' Muriel continued, I knew Litton
would face a trial when the Yank authorities heard ... the police had to pass
the case over to them, you see. I wasn't having that. I went to see his commanding
officer. Hard to get in, it was: there was something going on - they were getting
ready for something, you could tell - but I was determined. I got in to see him
and told him the truth. I made sure that the case was all dropped. My dad would
have seen him hanged but...'
That was very brave of you. I hope
Litton appreciated it.'
'I'll never know. They went over to
France a few days later. I never saw him again. That's war, my luvver ... you
count yourself lucky. We had to live for the moment ... that's all we could
do.'
'You said you were in the family
way?'
Muriel's face clouded. 'Aye... I was
sent away to my aunt's in Norfolk. No one had to know ... that was the thing
then.'
'What happened to the baby?'
This time Muriel's defiance cracked
and her eyes filled with tears. 'Little boy, it was ... taken away as soon as
he was born. They said a nice couple adopted him. I still think of him ... imagine
what he's like, what he does, what he looks like. If he's like his dad he'll be
good-looking.'