‘Yes,’ agreed Wesley quietly.
The inspector turned to Colin Bowman. ‘Well, Doc. Any ideas?’
‘There’s some bruising; marks on the temple. But I won’t be able to say anything for definite until I’ve had a better look.
PM first thing tomorrow suit you?’
‘I suppose so. You don’t think he died of a heart attack, then?’
Bowman shrugged. ‘It’s always possible.’ He looked at Wesley.
‘You were playing, weren’t you, Wesley? Do you know if he received a blow on the head from a cricket ball during the match?’
‘Not that I know of. But it’s not impossible. The players who were fielding with him should be able to tell us.’
‘Mmm,’ said the pathologist, deep in thought, staring down at the body.
‘Could someone have taken a swing at him with a cricket bat? Lethal things them bats in the wrong hands,’ said Heffernan.
Bowman smiled. ‘Sorry, Gerry. It’s definitely not a bat. Wrong pattern of bruising altogether.’
‘So it could be natural or accidental, from a fall?’ Wesley liked to know what he was dealing with.
‘What about time of death?’ asked Heffernan.
‘I’d say he’s probably been dead a couple of hours.’
‘That fits with him dying during the tea interval,’ said Wesley.
The pathologist smiled. ‘Well, hopefully all will be revealed tomorrow. Goodbye, gentlemen. Must be off. I’ve got a dinner
tonight … mustn’t be late.’
They watched as the pathologist marched jauntily off towards his car, contemplating the coming event in his lively social
life. The discreet gatherers of the dead came in Bowman’s wake with their shiny trolley, scooped up the mortal remains of
Brian Willerby and transported them to the waiting mortuary van. Wesley and Heffernan were left staring at the space where
the body had lain, searching for inspiration as the white-overalled Scenes of Crime Officers worked industriously around them.
Wesley broke the silence. ‘I suppose we’d better start asking some questions. Handy it’s the police team that were playing.
I told them to take the names and addresses of everyone who was at the match. Willerby’s team are waiting in the pavilion.
I said we’d want a word with them.’
‘We’d better get on with it, then. See if anyone can throw any light on what became of Willerby after the first half.’
‘Innings, sir. Half is in football.’ Wesley hesitated. ‘I suppose I’d better tell Pam the bad news … if she hasn’t already
heard.’
Heffernan rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘Susan! I’d completely forgotten about her. What am I going to do?’ He looked at Wesley
helplessly.
‘She was talking to Pam when I last saw her. I’ll go out there and appease them both, shall I?’
‘Yeah. You’re much better at that sort of thing than I am. You’d better tell them it could take some time. Best of luck. I’ll
meet you in the pavilion in ten minutes.’
Wesley noted a grin of relief on his boss’s face as he walked away to face the women in their lives. Pam was used to police
work disrupting her best-laid plans; but she still didn’t like it, especially now that, with Michael, their time together
was precious. Susan Green’s tolerance had yet to be tested.
The Earlsacre cricket team sat uncomfortably on narrow benches in their dusty pavilion awaiting the attentions of the local
constabulary. They were a mixed bunch: locals and newcomers; farmworkers and hi-tech commuters; schoolboys and the early retired.
Most wore an expression of puzzled innocence. None had known Brian Willerby well, or so they claimed, but all uttered pious
regrets at his passing.
Not that they were much help. Brian Willerby hadn’t been a very noticeable man, and at the end of the first innings they had
either wandered back to the pavilion in ones and twos or scattered to talk to friends who were watching the match. Only one
person admitted to having seen Willerby approach the trees: that was a lad from the sixth form of the local comprehensive
who was on the lookout for a girl he fancied who’d promised to meet him at the match. The boy had noticed Willerby go into
the trees alone but had assumed he was looking for the lost ball and had taken no notice. He hadn’t been aware of anyone following
him, which wasn’t surprising if he had other things on his mind. Willerby wasn’t seen again. After the first innings he had
simply disappeared.
And another thing puzzled Wesley. If Willerby had set out for the cricket match half an hour before it was due to begin, why
had he been so late? His house was in the village, ten minutes’ walk away at the most. What had he been doing during those
missing twenty minutes?
When Wesley had finished questioning the local doctor, who was last in the queue, he looked round and saw Gerry Heffernan
scratching his curly head impatiently. ‘Can I have a word, Sergeant?’ he said, making for the door.
Wesley followed him outside on to the creaking wooden veranda.
‘What do you reckon, Wes?’ Heffernan began as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘I’ve drawn a blank. Any likely candidates
among the lot you questioned?’
‘Aren’t we jumping the gun a bit, sir? We don’t even know it’s murder yet.’ Wesley stood for a moment staring out on to the
small, tree-lined cricket pitch. After a while he spoke. ‘One thing struck me as strange. Nobody seems to have had any opinion
about Brian Willerby one way or the other. He appears to have been a classic case of “keeps himself to himself”. He never
mixed much with the other people in the village, never frequented the King’s Head, never attended the village church or any
social events. The only socially minded thing he ever did was turn out for the cricket team when they were short of players,
and apparently it was one of the other partners in his firm who put his name forward … he didn’t even volunteer himself.’
Heffernan nodded sagely. ‘That figures.’
‘I found out one interesting fact, though. The man who found the body, Les Cumbernold, lives next door to Brian Willerby,
and apparently they didn’t get on.’
Heffernan’s eyes lit up with the excitement of the chase. ‘Tell me more.’
‘Well, one of the other players, the landlord of the King’s Head in fact, told PC Wallace that Willerby was going to sue Cumbernold
about some trees that were blocking out his light. It seems they weren’t on very good terms at all.’
‘Worth bearing in mind. Anything else? What about our two young lovers in the woods?’
Wesley grinned. ‘I don’t know whether you’d class Jacintha Hervey as young. She’s forty if she’s a day, but word has it that
she has a taste for younger men. I picked up quite a bit of gossip about her on my travels.’
‘Come on, Wes, tell all.’ Heffernan rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Wesley tried to conceal a smile. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed his boss’s ears prick up at the promise of scandalous
gossip.
‘Well, according to Neil, Jacintha has been making a play for Jake for quite a while. And popular rumour has it that she’s
also been pursuing Charles Pitaway, who’s working on the garden designs, although I don’t think she’s had any luck there as
yet.’ He turned round and looked through the pavilion window. ‘That’s Pitaway over there … tall, dark hair. In fact he was
the third man in that cutting from the dead man’s caravan, remember? He was trying to avoid
Jacintha’s attentions when I was talking to him during the tea interval.’
Heffernan peered through the window. ‘So we’ve got a love triangle, have we? Jacintha, Jake and Charles. You don’t reckon
Brian Willerby was making it a square, do you?’
Wesley smirked and shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t think so. From what I saw, Charles was definitely the one being pursued …
no jealousy there. And anyway I can’t imagine that Willerby would be her type. I think Jacintha’s what they call a free spirit,
if you know what I mean.’
‘I know what you mean all right, Wes. I’ve come across plenty of them, especially when I was at sea. I had a free spirit in
every port.’
‘Really, sir?’ said Wesley, mildly surprised. This was an aspect of his boss’s past he had never heard about before.
‘Happy days, Wes, happy days.’ Heffernan sighed, then changed the subject quickly. ‘So what did our not-so-young lovers have
to say for themselves?’
‘Well, they were, er, at it in the clearing in the woodland at the side of the pitch, about thirty yards from where the body
was found. They claim they didn’t hear or see anything suspicious until they heard a noise and went to investigate. They saw
Les Cumbernold running off towards the cricket field and then they stumbled on the body. They each confirm the other’s version
of events.’
‘And what about Cumbernold?’
‘He’s sticking to his story about going in there to look for a lost cricket ball and coming across Jake and Jacintha. He watched
for a while, he said. Then, when they were adjusting their clothing, he decided to make a swift exit, and that’s when he saw
the body. He must have uttered some sort of cry of surprise, which Jake and Jacintha heard, then he said he ran off for help.’
‘Is it common to look for lost cricket balls after a match?’
‘I should think so. They’re not cheap.’
‘Have you come across anyone who saw Willerby being hit by a cricket ball during the match?’
‘No. They were quite positive about that. He almost took a catch, apparently, and dropped it, but there’s no way the ball
hit him on the head.’
A sudden flash of panic crossed the inspector’s face. ‘Susan and Pam: I’d forgotten all about them. What did Susan say? Was
she annoyed?’
‘Resigned is more the word. I think Pam invited her back to our house for a Chinese.’
Heffernan looked relieved. ‘I feel a bit bad about it, you see, Wes. I’ve not seen her for a month or so while she’s been
in the States, and I go and invite her to a cricket match and a meal afterwards then this happens. Brian Willerby always was
an awkward bugger,’ he added, looking at his watch. ‘I suppose we ought to pay our respects to the grieving widow. Tell you
what, Wes, I’ll go back to your house and cheer up the ladies and you get Rachel over to visit Mrs Willerby – she’s wonderful
with grieving relatives and it shouldn’t take long. Find out what you can about Willerby and see if she knows what he wanted
to talk to you about. You’ll be back in no time and we’ll save you some fried rice.’
‘Great,’ said Wesley, unconvinced. Why did he feel that he’d just drawn the short straw?
Neil Watson walked slowly towards the stable block, Claire O’Farrell by his side.
‘What did you tell the police?’ Claire asked anxiously, looking Neil in the eye.
‘Nothing much. Why?’
‘What did they ask you?’
‘Just where I was during the tea interval; did I know that dead man; that sort of thing. I tried to see Wes but they said
he was busy. I don’t think we should worry too much; he was found well away from the dig so it won’t hold up the work.’
Claire had fallen silent. She looked strained, worried. Her bright blue eyes had lost their sparkle.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Neil. ‘He was only some guy from the village. They didn’t even say his death was suspicious: it
could have been an accident or a heart attack for all we know. Don’t let it worry you.’ He paused. ‘You didn’t know him, did
you?’
Claire didn’t answer. Instead she gave him a distant smile. ‘If you can spare a minute I’ll show you those maps I was talking
about. There are some old accounts books too that are rather interesting.’
Neil glanced through the wide archway of the gatehouse into the walled garden. He knew Matt and Jane would be working there.
Jake, he had heard on the dig’s efficient grapevine, was still recovering from his little adventure with the voracious Jacintha.
The original layout of the garden was now clearly visible – a
patchwork of raised flower-beds separated by gravel pathways. Neil’s eyes were drawn to the middle of the garden; to the deeply
excavated rectangle of earth where the central stone plinth had stood for centuries, concealing the grizzly secrets that lay
beneath.
‘I should really get back and give the others a hand,’ he said, his conscience nagging him, torn between duty and Claire’s
presence.
‘Wouldn’t you like to see an account of the materials used to build the shell grotto?’ Claire asked, almost as if she knew
Neil’s weaknesses. ‘The household accounts from 1701 when Richard Lantrist tarted up the gardens? Can I tempt you?’ she added
coquettishly.
The combination of Claire and a contemporary account of the creation of Earlsacre gardens was irresistible. He walked closely
by her side as they proceeded towards her office in the stables. ‘You could tempt me to do anything,’ he whispered softly
in her ear. Then he fell silent feeling that perhaps he’d overstepped the mark. Commitment wasn’t his style; he would have
to remember that.
A few minutes later Neil and Claire were sitting close together, bent over an old map of the Earlsacre estate. It was dated
1710 and showed the gardens clearly: the walled garden with its parterres, paths and sundial on the central plinth, the shell
grotto clearly visible against the east wall, and the gatehouse in all its glory. Then the water garden next to it with its
pools and fountains, now being lovingly restored. The humbler kitchen garden clung sulkily to the house, a place of usefulness
rather than beauty. To see it all there in front of him, drawn when it was new and fresh, gave Neil a vivid picture of what
he was bringing back into the world … except for the skeletons: there was no clue to their identity on the map.
‘Have a look at this.’ Claire pushed what looked like an ancient notebook into his hands. ‘It’s the garden accounts. The work
and materials Richard Lantrist ordered and what he paid for them.’
Neil took it from her and began to flick through it. He knew what he was looking for. And it wasn’t long before he found it.
Richard Lantrist had ordered a slab of Beer stone to form the centrepiece of his fine walled garden at Earlsacre, and had
commissioned a fashionable sundial to set on top of it. The date on which the stone slab was set into place by a team of estate
workers was 4 July 1701: the men had been paid an extra penny each for their trouble. Neil shuddered. A penny to bury a young
woman alive. But at least they now had a definite date for one of the probable murders.