As I write this we sail towards England and I am in good spirits although the voyage has taken a full three months. It is
excellent that you continue as maidservant to the mistress: it would grieve me sorely to think of you alone and unprotected
in my absence. But, dearest one, I will send for you and our son as soon as this business is done. Though I am perplexed as
to why my father’s lawyers did not write to inform me of his death.If it were not for Captain Parry’s chance meeting while he was ashore in Tradmouth with the Vicar of Earlsacre, I should not
know to this day that I am come into my inheritance. I know not why I was never told that my father had died. For two long
years I have wondered why he never responded to my letters. I had thought him sick perhaps. I have another sad task to perform
when I reach Devon. I must break the news to Joseph Marling’s father that he disappeared from the island two years since,
that most like he had met with some accident or ill fortune. Pray, dearest one, that he is yet found safe for his father’s
sake, who was ever a loyal servant to our family.
There were fond endearments and promises that they would soon be reunited. Claire scrolled down to the second letter. This
bore the
words, printed at the top in a neat, almost childlike hand, ‘his last letter’. Neil was filled with a sense of foreboding.
I write this from the Castle Inn at Tradmouth and I shall entrust my letters to Captain Parry as his ship leaves for the Indies
on the morrow. I have not yet journeyed to Earlsacre as I hear strange stories of the place that I can scarce believe. Sweet
one, I fear there is villainy of some kind afoot. I did visit with my father’s lawyer who swore that I was an impostor and
should be thrown into prison. I thought it prudent to leave his chambers before he called the constable. There is a misconception
somewhere that I must resolve before I send for you, my love. But fear not. I will visit Earlsacre on the morrow and all will
be well. My prayers are with you.
‘When’s that one dated?’ asked Neil, peering over Claire’s shoulder.
‘July second, 1701, would you believe,’ said Claire quietly. She thought for a moment. ‘But Richard Lantrist was … The plinth
was put down in the walled garden on the fourth of July. This means that the Richard who built the gardens wasn’t the Richard
who was transported. We saw that the handwriting in the letters and the handwriting in the garden notebook were completely
different. There’s the nice Richard, the real heir to Earlsacre, who married Rebecca in Barbados and was a great mate of Captain
Parry, and there was nasty Richard, who Jacob Finsbury stayed with and wrote about in 1703. There were two of them.’
‘I’d just about worked that out for myself.’
‘And if nice Richard, the real Richard, planned to visit Earlsacre to see what was going on the third of July, that means
…’
‘That he was murdered by nasty Richard as soon as he showed his face and buried in the middle of the walled garden. It’s beginning
to fit together nicely. A serving girl went missing about that time … Jinny something. I bet that’s the girl who was buried
alive. She witnessed something she shouldn’t and nasty Richard got rid of her. He probably drugged her or knocked her out
then he buried her with nice Richard and plonked the plinth on top of them both – only she was still alive.’
‘And then later on Captain Parry came along looking for the Richard he’d befriended: he found that the man who called
himself Richard Lantrist was an impostor and was killed to keep him quiet.’
‘But who was the nasty Richard?’
‘Haven’t you worked that out yet, Neil?’ said Claire, shaking her head.
‘The gardener’s son, Joseph Marling; the one who disappeared from Barbados two years previously around the time the real Richard’s
father died?’
Claire nodded smugly. ‘It’s my guess that Joseph was a slippery character. Maybe he was in the habit of reading Richard’s
letters if he got the chance. I think he intercepted the letter to Richard saying that his father was dead and had an idea.
If he could get back home to Devon he could take Richard’s identity. They had known each other since childhood, and Joseph
must have been as well acquainted with the estate as Richard. If they looked a bit alike he could probably have got away with
impersonating him; after all, fourteen years had passed. The real Richard, settled in Barbados with his wife and child, might
never have been any the wiser. Joseph hadn’t bargained for the real Richard being so pally with Captain Parry, of course.’
‘Is there another letter?’ asked Neil.
Claire pressed a key and the screen revealed the third letter in the possession of the little museum in that far-off island.
‘It’s from Captain Parry to Rebecca,’ said Neil, awed, leaning over her shoulder but rendered oblivious to her proximity by
the unfolding story on the computer screen. ‘It’s dated February 1702, Bridgetown, Barbados.’
He read: ‘ “Your letter awaited me at the inn upon my arrival in Bridgetown. I share your concerns regarding your husband.
You say you have not had word from him since July of last year and that in his last letter he wrote of villainy and strange
tales concerning his inheritance at Earlsacre. Trust me, madam, that I will visit Earlsacre on my return to England and seek
out the truth of the matter. I send this with a servant now but I will call upon you before I sail. I know my dear friend
Richard would be concerned for your welfare and that of his son. I remain, madam, your servant, Jonah Parry.” ’
He looked up at Claire. ‘So Captain Parry was going to visit Earlsacre when he got back to England. The voyage took about
three months in those days, so that’d be around May, wouldn’t it? It fits. He goes to Earlsacre and finds that the man who’s
claiming to be Richard
is an impostor, so he’s murdered and buried under the shell grotto. I can’t wait to tell Wesley all this.’
Claire looked uneasy at the mention of Wesley’s name. ‘He’ll be busy. He won’t have time.’
‘Nonsense. He’ll want to know. I’m going to see if he’s about.’
‘No, Neil, please …’
But Neil wasn’t listening. He rushed out of the room in search of his quarry.
‘Where the hell is Rachel?’ Gerry Heffernan paced to and fro across the floor of the incident room. ‘Ring the farm, will you,
Wes. Tell her to get herself down here now.’
Wesley looked uneasy. ‘Surely if she wasn’t well she would have let us know.’ The Rachel he knew was hardly the unreliable
type.
‘Yeah. This isn’t like her at all.’
Heffernan was right. It wasn’t like Rachel not to turn up without an explanation. They both sensed that something was amiss
but neither man wanted to put his fears into words. The fact that Rachel was clearly involved with Charles Pitaway didn’t
make them feel any easier. But they had no evidence against Pitaway. None at all apart from the word of a con man who could
convince even the most levelheaded that for a small fee he could introduce them to mermaids selling their favours in the River
Trad at high tide. Pitaway might be as innocent as the average newborn babe for all they knew … probably was.
Wesley rang the farm and spoke to one of Rachel’s brothers. She had stayed the night with Trish Walton, he was told; some
sort of emotional crisis on Trish’s part. Wesley looked up and saw that Trish was at her desk sorting through witness statements,
seemingly untouched by the storms of emotion. He went over and spoke to her. Trish was puzzled. Rachel hadn’t stayed with
her and, she added, blushing, she was fine: she had no emotional problems. Whatever had given him that idea?
Wesley, feeling a little foolish, broke the news to Heffernan.
‘Have you tried her mobile?’ Heffernan asked anxiously.
‘Yes, several times. But there’s no answer. I’ll keep trying.’
‘Try Charles Pitaway’s flat and all. There’s always a chance she might have called in there.’
Wesley obliged, waiting a full minute while the phone rang out at the other end. ‘Nobody’s there,’ he said, replacing the
receiver.
‘Right, tell all patrols to keep a look out for Pitaway’s car.’
‘Aren’t we overreacting?’
‘I don’t know but I’m not taking any chances.’
Neil hovered by the door of the incident room, peering in, looking for Wesley. Gerry Heffernan spotted him, but instead of
his customary wisecrack he greeted him with the wave of a worried hand and beckoned him to come in.
Neil spotted Wesley in the corner of the room, a telephone held to his ear. He marched over to him.
‘What’s up with everyone, Wes? Looks like a wake when the drink’s run out.’
‘Rachel’s not come in and we’re worried. She hasn’t been home all night and the person she told her mum she was staying with
hasn’t seen her. It’s not like her at all.’
‘She’s a big girl. Probably having a bit of … Charles Pitaway was sniffing around, you know.’
‘We’ve checked him, went there first thing. There was no sign of her. He’s not answering his phone now, so I assume he’s gone
out.’
‘He’s down here most days,’ said Neil, losing interest in Charles and Rachel. ‘You’ll never guess what we’ve found.’
‘What?’ said Wesley impatiently. He was in no mood for guessing games.
‘Only the solution to the puzzle of the skeletons in the walled garden. Claire got an e-mail from Barbados. They’ve got some
old letters in a museum there. Two from Richard Lantrist to his wife, Rebecca, in Barbados, and one to Rebecca from Captain
Jonah Parry. I reckon I’ve pieced together the whole story,’ he concluded with pride ‘I’ll be after your job next.’
‘But Lantrist already had a wife. Didn’t he marry a local heiress?’
‘That wasn’t the real Richard Lantrist. That was an impostor. The gardener’s son who got transported with him pinched the
letter which told Richard his dad had died and he’d inherited the estate. Then Joseph Marling came back pretending to be Richard
and when the real Richard twigged what had happened and came back, Marling murdered him.’
Wesley began to take notice. ‘So the girl’s skeleton was the real Richard’s wife?’
‘No. I think she was just some maidservant who saw something she shouldn’t: a maid called Jinny Cartwright did go missing
around
that time. There was a lot of talk about it in the village, according to Jacob Finsbury’s journal. And when Captain Parry
came to see what had happened to Richard, he got bumped off too.’
‘And the real Richard’s wife? What happened to her?’
‘Last I heard she was still in Barbados with their son. There’s nothing more about her in the correspondence. It all stops
when Parry was killed.’
‘Have you any proof of all this?’
Neil shrugged. ‘Come and have a look through all the documents yourself and see if you don’t come up with the same story.
It took a while to put together – like a jigsaw with half the bits missing – but once I thought about it and all the dates,
it’s the only explanation.’
Wesley plonked himself down on a nearby office chair, deep in thought. After a while he looked up at Neil, who was still grinning
triumphantly at the thought of his detective prowess.
‘I’ve just had an idea.’ Wesley stood up so quickly that the office chair skidded away on its castors. ‘I’ve got to see the
boss.’
Neil watched open-mouthed as Wesley rushed across the room, a man in a hurry.
Charles Pitaway took the file out from under the bed and placed it carefully on top of the duvet. He sat down on the bed and
flicked through it. It was a detail he hadn’t thought of, and details couldn’t be ignored. He should have been more careful.
He sat staring at the two handwritten letters in the file; letters saying that Charles Pitaway would be interested in selling
the Earlsacre estate should it be his to sell one day in the future. Martin Samuels had never been one for holding back tactfully
where his obsession with Earlsacre was concerned. Charles sat for a few moments comparing these letters with his signature
on the later legal documents and cursing his own incompetence.
He tucked the file underneath his arm. He would get rid of it on the ferry crossing, throw it into the sea and let the salt
water destroy the evidence. He had already disposed of the real Charles Pitaway’s T-shirt and his own bloodstained clothing
in this way, flinging them off a high cliff at Little Tradmouth Head into the swirling sea below.
Through the open bedroom door he could see Rachel. She looked peaceful, like a child fast asleep. It was a pity, he thought.
But he knew that he had been sailing close to the wind conducting a relationship with a policewoman. Perhaps he had been attracted
by
the risk. Perhaps he had just liked Rachel. But it was too late for those thoughts now.
He walked over to where Rachel lay on the brightly coloured rug beside the black leather sofa. He looked at the coffee cup
on the glass table. She had drunk the lot. That was good. Then he knelt beside her and touched her fair hair with gentle fingers
that crept down towards her throat.
e-mail from Winston Paul, Bridgetown Museum, Barbados: Dear Claire
I’ve turned up one more document. Another letter from Captain Parry to Rebecca Lantrist … dramatic stuff. Hope it’s helpful
to you. Winston.I feel I must write to inform you that I have made investigations into the whereabouts of your husband and I fear some villainy
is afoot. Upon my arrival at Tradmouth I travelled to Earlsacre and I did stay at the inn there where I heard disturbing tales.
The Richard Lantrist who dwells at Earlsacre Hall is, I fear, not your husband, whom I knew as a good and upright man. I saw
this Sir Richard riding through the village and it was not your husband but another that I recognised … one Joseph Marling
who, I confess, did bear a passing resemblance to Richard.I fear, madam, that an impostor dwells on your husband’s estate, but I must have proof if I am to bring this before the authorities.
I stay at the inn tonight and I shall visit Earlsacre on the morrow. The landlord here has promised to place this letter in
the hands of a captain of my acquaintance in Tradmouth who sails for Barbados in the next week.I remain, madam, your servant, Jonah Parry