‘What are you doing?’ asked Neil.
‘I’m sending some e-mails to museums and historical societies in the West Indies, starting with Barbados where Lantrist landed
up.
According to Richard’s letters home, he was sold to a plantation owner there called Jackson.’
‘He managed to get letters home?’
‘Occasionally, but only when Captain Parry’s ship docked there. It seems that Parry took quite an interest in Richard and
got permission from Jackson to take letters back to England. Anyway, I plan to ask all the museums and societies in the area
if they have any records relating to anyone called Lantrist. I’ll send out the e-mails now. There’s no time like the present.’
She began to type. Neil watched her closely. ‘What happens if our suspicions are correct?’ he asked.
‘I’d say there are going to be some fireworks around here if we can prove it,’ Claire answered as she pressed the key that
would send her questions half way round the globe.
Soapy Syd Parsons took the tray from the young police constable and thanked him politely. Just because he was incarcerated
in a small bare cell in the bowels of Tradmouth police station with nothing but a stainless-steel toilet and a thin, plastic-covered
mattress for company, that was no reason for him to forget his manners.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked the constable.
The young officer blushed. ‘PC Jarvis. Why?’ he asked nervously, hoping he hadn’t given any cause for complaint.
‘What’s your first name?’
The officer blushed again. ‘Charlie. My mum’s a great fan of the royal family,’ he answered, swallowing nervously. He hoped
the prisoner wasn’t trying to distract him before overpowering him and making a bid for freedom. The custody sergeant had
told him to watch out for all the tricks.
But the elderly man made no move. He sat on the blue mattress beside the tray bearing his evening meal with a faraway smile
on his face.
As PC Jarvis turned to go, Syd called to him. ‘Tell that Chief Inspector Heffernan I want to speak to him, will you, Charlie?
Tell him I’ve got something to tell him.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ replied Jarvis as he left the cell, locking the door carefully behind him.
‘What do you think of him?’ said Pam as she slipped her nightdress over her head.
‘Who?’
‘Jamie. What do you think?’
Wesley looked up from the book he was reading, a new and much-hyped biography of Judge Jeffreys, and thought for a second.
‘I must say he surprised me tonight. I really had him down as a con man, but the shares he bought for your mother actually
came up trumps, so it looks like he’s above board after all. But I still can’t say I like the man. As Gerry Heffernan would
say, he’s as smooth as an eel’s armpits.’
Pam smiled at this Heffernanism, as she called the chief inspector’s more colourful sayings.
‘I suppose you’re right.’ She picked up her book then put it down again. The subject wasn’t closed yet: it was still in her
mind and she would worry at it like a terrier until she had unloaded all her fears. ‘It makes me sick the way they’re all
over each other.’ She wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘I still reckon there’s something iffy about him.’
‘Your mother’s grown up.’
‘I sometimes wonder. She’s just the kind of woman a con man would target: widowed, looking for affection and comfortably off.
There must be something we can do.’
‘Sorry. James Delmann’s got no police record, so if there’s anything to be found out about him, Della’ll have to find it out
for herself. But so far it sounds as if he’s genuine. He’s made her four thousand quid already.’
‘There’s still something about him I don’t trust.’
‘Perhaps you’re just comparing him with your father.’
‘Oh, don’t get all Freudian on me, Wesley. I can’t take it at this time of night. And I’d better get some sleep if I’m going
to be up for work in the morning. Unless …’ She took the book gently from his hands and kissed his ear. Judge Jeffreys would
have to wait.
Then the telephone rang.
Wesley sighed and picked up the receiver. Gerry Heffernan’s voice on the other end of the line was so loud that Pam, lying
a couple of feet away, could hear every word he said.
‘Hey, Wes, you’ll never guess what Soapy Syd’s come up with. Only another name for our mystery caravaner. Want to know what
it is?’
Wesley, tired, frustrated and in no mood for guessing games, answered in the affirmative.
Barbados, October 1697
My dearest Father
The news of my brother’s death grieves me greatly. The swiftness of his sickness reminds us that we must all be prepared to
meet our Maker at any time He so chooses. In answer to your inquiry concerning Joseph Marling, I can assure his father that
he is in good health and doth now work in Master Jackson’s gardens. I myself am well and, as my sentence is served and through
your entreaties conveyed by the good Captain Parry, I no longer work in the plantation but am given employment in the household
as a clerk, for which I am truly grateful. Joseph and I have better fortune than the Africans who work the plantations in
conditions of great hardship, even though Master Jackson is considered a kinder master than most. It is an unhappy and wicked
trade and all Christian men should do all in their power to end it. It is surely against the will of the Almighty that man
should treat his fellow man thus for greed and gain.It is well that your fortunes have increased and that you offer to bring me home. I am resolved not to return as yet but I
must beg a favour of you. There is a young African woman, born of slaves here on the island and daughter of the overseer on
the plantation. She is a household slave, greatly favoured by Mistress Jackson, and works as that lady’s maidservant. In secret
I have taught her to read and write our language and she has proved an able pupil. Her name is Rebecca and she is the sweetest
and loveliest of women. I beg you, dear father, to offer Master Jackson whatever sum he names to buy her freedom, for she
has become most dear to me.I give this letter into Captain Parry’s hands before he sets sail and be assured that my prayers are with you. Please oblige
me in these humble requests and God will bless you for it.I remain your most loving and obedient son
Richard Lantrist
Rachel Tracey lay asleep, her hair spread out against the dark blue pillow. Charles Pitaway propped himself up on his elbow,
watching her. He touched her hair gently and she stirred.
‘Haven’t you got to be at work?’ he whispered.
‘Mmm,’ she murmured sleepily, opening her eyes. ‘I’d rather stay here.’
‘Now where would the law-abiding citizens of Devon be if all the police decided to stay in bed, Detective Constable Tracey,’
he teased, pulling the sheets down to expose her naked body. She squealed and grabbed at the sheets as Charles rolled on top
of her and began to kiss her, stifling her laughter. Then the urgent sound of the doorbell made them freeze, statue still.
Charles jumped off the bed as the bell rang a second time. ‘I’d better get that,’ he said. ‘Might be the post … something
urgent. Don’t go away,’ he added as he planted a kiss on her forehead.
Rachel lay still and listened. Whoever was at the front door of Charles’ modern flat overlooking Dukesbridge harbour, it wasn’t
an employee of the Royal Mail. They had come into the flat and they were talking. Rachel froze with horror as she recognised
the voices. Then she scrambled out of bed and pulled on her clothes, her heart beating fast. This was a punishment, she told
herself; a punishment for telling lies to her mother – and to Dave; for saying that she was spending the night with a broken-hearted
WPC Trish Walton, who had just broken up with a fictitious boyfriend. Her mother had always told her that her sins would find
her out. With Gerry Heffernan and Wesley Peterson standing on the other side of the thin bedroom door, she was convinced for
the first time in her life that her mother was absolutely right.
She pressed her ear to the door and listened, hoping desperately that Charles wouldn’t give her presence away … and that Wesley
and the boss wouldn’t take it into their heads to search the place for some reason.
She heard Gerry Heffernan’s loud voice asking the questions. ‘A witness has come forward who says he met a man called Charles
Pitaway a week last Monday. This Charles Pitaway had just arrived in the country from abroad where he’d been working in a
vineyard for two years.’
She could just make out Charles’ reply. ‘Well, I had a job in a vineyard near Bordeaux for a while. I make no secret of it.
I was working there when a letter came from our solicitors to say that my father had died and that I’d inherited the estate.
I don’t know if someone’s been impersonating me or what …’
‘Your family solicitor – that would be Brian Willerby?’
‘Yes, that’s right. But I never had any contact with Willerby myself before he wrote to me on behalf of Martin Samuels to
offer to buy the estate. I never met him until I came to Tradmouth, and then it was only to sign some papers,’ said Charles,
spelling out the facts patiently.
‘And would it surprise you to know that our witness identified the Charles Pitaway he met as the unidentified man found dead
in a caravan near Bloxham?’
Rachel’s mouth went dry. She held her breath and listened to Charles’ reply.
‘I’m as puzzled as you are, Chief Inspector. I really don’t know what to say. I can only guess that someone’s been using my
name in some sort of fraud attempt. Or, of course, there’s a chance that his real name was Charles Pitaway and it’s just a
coincidence. May I have a look at the photograph of the dead man if you’ve got it with you?’
There was silence for a few seconds. Rachel breathed again. Charles was telling the truth. As he said, someone might have
been using his name, or it was coincidence. There would be a simple explanation.
When Charles broke the silence, Rachel nearly jumped. ‘He does look a bit familiar. There were so many people who just worked
at the vineyard for a few weeks – students, itinerant workers, drifters. One of them could easily have picked up on my name
and decided to use it for reasons of his own. I can assure you, gentlemen, I’m as puzzled as you are.’
Rachel could almost see him giving her two colleagues his most charming smile. One thing that Charles wasn’t short of was
charm. She heard him say, ‘Sorry I couldn’t be more help. I’ll look forward to meeting you on the cricket field again next
year, Wesley. Are you getting much practice in the nets now the season’s over?’
Rachel crept away from the door and picked up her handbag from
the floor. It opened and her purse fell out, spilling coins underneath the bed. She swore under her breath and fell to her
knees. Then she lifted up the valance and peered under the bed. As she gathered up the stray coins her hand came into contact
with cardboard. Absentmindedly she pulled it out and looked at it. It was a file, thick with documents. She could see a name
scrawled on the front in black felt-tip pen – Earlsacre. She opened it. The file was crammed with long-winded legal documents,
letters and copies of letters sent. She flicked through the papers, then began to read one of the letters. It was dated eighteen
months ago and was written from an address near Bordeaux. It was handwritten, not too easy to decipher. She peered down at
it, trying to make sense of what she was reading.
As she hadn’t heard Heffernan and Wesley leave, she hadn’t expected the door to open at that moment. She jumped, pushed the
file underneath the bed, and looked up at Charles guiltily.
‘They’ve gone,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll make us a coffee.’
Claire O’Farrell had got up early, telling Neil that she was going to Earlsacre to check if there were any replies to her
e-mails. Neil, not wanting to miss out, hauled himself out of bed and woke himself up under the shower. If there was any news
about Richard Lantrist, he wanted to be the first to know.
When they reached the stable block they passed the open door of the police incident room. He could see a handful of officers
working purposefully, typing into computers or speaking on the telephone; he was mildly irritated not to see Wesley anywhere
about.
The computer awaited them in Claire’s office, its blank, dark grey screen inscrutable. Claire booted it up and waited. It
was a couple of very long minutes before she discovered that one of her e-mails had been answered.
A Winston Paul, curator of a small museum on the island of Barbados, was delighted to convey the news that he was in possession
of some early-eighteenth-century letters concerning a man called Richard Lantrist, donated to the museum by one of his descendants
many years ago. He said he would search his records to see if there was any more material hidden in the archives. Mr Paul’s
enthusiasm positively bubbled from the screen. He was excited to hear about the Earlsacre project and asked to be sent all
the archaeological reports when they were completed. There was an old plantation house and gardens that a local history society
in Barbados
was longing to excavate; but their task wouldn’t be easy as the site was overgrown by thick jungle. Neil, glad that his digs
weren’t quite so harrowing, was only too pleased to oblige; he felt it was the least he could do for the distant and helpful
Mr Paul.
The text of the letters appeared below Winston Paul’s words. Mercifully, they weren’t long. The first was apparently from
Richard to Rebecca, the young African woman mentioned in his letters to his father. They both worked on the Jackson estate;
Richard as clerk and Rebecca now as lady’s maid. Presumably John Lantrist had bought Rebecca’s freedom as the pair seemed
now to be married with a child. Neil found himself liking old John Lantrist – and the Richard of the letters. He couldn’t
quite match the taciturn Richard Lantrist of Jacob Finsbury’s gossipy accounts with the Richard who emerged from his correspondence
with his father and now with his wife as a likeable, compassionate man: a man of firm faith and principles; a man who felt
strongly about the evils of the slave trade and who treated Rebecca, an African woman, with love and respect. But people change.
He read on.