Now that Richard was fully occupied, and the police were no longer sniffing about, Alfred knew he had to do
some clearing up of his own. If the holiday park generated enough money to make all the much needed improvements to the hall’s
decaying fabric, there was something that had to be done before the place began crawling with curious tradesmen interfering
with all those buried pipes and cables.
The police had been perfectly satisfied that he’d found the bones he’d deposited in the picnic trench when he’d been digging
Ursula’s grave in the pets’ cemetery. And there had been no reason why they shouldn’t have believed him, because that particular
story had been true.
He had brought the spade indoors from one of the crumbling outhouses and now he carried it stiffly down the cellar steps.
He’d already placed the other things down there – the trowel and the plastic bin liners – and when he reached the spot, he
began to dig, feverishly at first, then more slowly as exhaustion overtook his ageing body.
As he dug, the events of the past flashed through his mind as vividly as though they had happened yesterday.
He’d known they were meeting in the woods; he’d heard them arranging it. No doubt Daniel Parsland had enjoyed destroying Richard’s
innocence and initiating him into the pleasures of physical love. But that particular flirtation had been a sideshow, because
Richard’s mother, Selena, had been his target from the first. It had been an unforgivable thing to do, to use the son as a
smokescreen to mask his true intentions; to hurt the boy’s tender adolescent feelings like that. Parsland had been an odious,
amoral man, but he had paid the price for his sins and received his due punishment. And as for Selena, she had disappointed
and disgusted him.
Alfred had taken the shotgun from the locked cupboard,
as he often did at night when he went out to hunt vermin. It had seemed like a game in the pallid light of the full moon,
with everything seen in silver shadows: owls swooping from the sheltering trees and frightened woodland creatures scurrying
in the undergrowth. Then that magical landscape changed, and play became terror, as it dawned on Daniel that they were being
hunted. As Alfred approached, gun loaded and ready, he’d started to run, dragging Selena behind him.
He’d closed in on them by stealth. From his childhood he’d explored those woods and he knew every clearing and every track.
They had thought they were safe until he appeared there in front of them and levelled the gun carefully at Daniel’s chest.
He would never forget the terror in the voices of his cornered quarry as they squealed and pleaded for mercy.
But he had hardened his heart, squeezed the trigger twice and watched the life depart from their earthly bodies. Then there
had been the deception; the carefully altered postcards dating from Selena’s early travels before Richard’s birth – the smudged
postmarks and the greeting ‘Dear Alfred’ changed to ‘Dear Alfred and Rich’. She had never written more than a few words: ‘Everything
fine’, ‘Enjoying myself’. Her casual brevity had made it so easy to convince Richard that she was still alive.
He continued to dig, taking frequent rests to catch his breath, and it was half an hour before he saw the tell-tale white
of bone against the dark earth of the cellar floor. Two skulls, side by side as though in conversation.
After all those years his wife, Selena, and her lover, Daniel, were about to leave Catton Hall.
*
Pam was keen to see the exhibition at Tate Modern, although Wesley, after having had the dubious pleasure of meeting Kevin
Orford, had his reservations.
Wesley’s mother had taken some leave and seized the chance to entertain her grandchildren, so they travelled from the Petersons’
home in Dulwich and arrived at the gallery just before lunch.
The red-brick power station beside the Thames, which had metamorphosised into Tate Modern, looked magnificent in the sunlight,
and Wesley wasn’t sure why he felt apprehensive as he approached the gallery housing Orford’s exhibition. Perhaps he was associating
the picnic with the horror of Dunstan Price’s crimes that had been there at the back of his mind all summer, tainting everything
however hard he tried to forget.
And now he was face to face with one of the witnesses. Kevin Orford, resplendent in an orange sleeveless vest, particoloured
baggy trousers and wild, white wig, was holding court with a glass of red wine in his hand, surrounded by an adoring group
of earnest young people. More than ever now, he reminded Wesley of a jester – one who lacked the knack of amusing an audience.
The installation filled the entire gallery – a huge plaster cast of the rotting picnic, left ghostly white. On each wall,
large screens played footage of the excavation and Pam nudged him and pointed at Neil’s moving image.
‘Fame at last,’ she whispered. It didn’t seem appropriate to make comments out loud in that church-like atmosphere.
To Wesley’s surprise, Orford spotted him, said a word to his rapt audience and hurried towards him with the determination
of a guided missile. For a split second, Wesley
toyed with the idea of turning on his heels and fleeing, but he stood his ground and waited.
‘I’m so glad you could make it to my little exhibition,’ said Orford. ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Wesley, unsure what to say next. Pam was hovering by his side, her curiosity palpable, so he made the introductions
and Orford took Pam’s hand and kissed it in what Wesley thought was a remarkably affected manner. But she seemed to be enjoying
herself, so he smiled and said nothing.
Orford leaned forward and whispered in Wesley’s ear confidentially. ‘I’d like to have a word in private if that’s OK. There’s
an office we can use just over there.’ He turned to Pam. ‘I’m sure your lovely partner will excuse us. Do help yourself to
more wine.’ He clicked his finger at an underling who scurried over and, after whispered instructions, Pam’s glass was refilled
and she was led towards the canapés arrayed on a trestle table at the end of the room. Wesley had wondered whether it was
part of the installation – a feast within a feast – but it seemed its purpose was purely functional.
Wesley followed Orford into a mundane office behind the artistic scenes. Once the door was closed, the artist removed the
wig to reveal his shiny scalp and wiped his brow, like an actor arriving back in the wings after delivering a gruelling Shakespearian
soliloquy.
Wesley was intrigued now. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’
‘Something’s been on my mind. I know I should have told you at the time and it probably won’t make any difference but …’ He
paused and Wesley waited patiently for him to continue. ‘My statement, as far as it went, was true.
I did see Karen and I did give her money that Saturday morning but … to tell you the truth, I went back later – around one
thirty or maybe two, I can’t be sure of the exact time. I was worried about her and I wanted to make sure she was all right.
When I didn’t get an answer I pushed the door and it wasn’t locked. I found her … she was still warm.’
‘You should have told us this before.’
‘I didn’t want to incriminate myself. But now someone’s been charged … When I found her, she was on the floor but … well,
I couldn’t leave her like that, so I laid her out properly on the bed. I felt she deserved some respect. I know I should have
told you but …’
‘Her killer said he left her on the floor so we were wondering how …’ The prosecution had been sure that Dun was lying, but
Wesley had never been convinced. And now he knew the truth.
‘And there’s something else.’ Orford focused his eyes on the floor and breathed deeply, as though he was about to make some
dreadful revelation.
‘When I got to the house, I saw a kid dashing out and his eyes … they were sort of wild, as though he’d just seen a vision
of hell – that’s the only way I can describe it. I don’t think he saw me. He didn’t look as if he was in a fit state to notice
anything. It was the same kid whose picture was in the paper – the one who killed her. It said he was her estranged son.’
Orford began to edge towards the door.
‘Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?’
Orford looked Wesley in the eye. ‘Because he was just a kid. I knew that once you lot got your claws into him he’d be locked
away and labelled for life, and I thought he deserved a chance – an opportunity for his spirit to soar.
And who knows, perhaps he just thought he’d killed her and someone else finished off the dirty deed. Maybe he didn’t do it.’
The artist gave Wesley an enigmatic smile, replaced the wig and opened the door.
‘I’ll be in your part of the world again next summer. I’m returning to Catton Hall to create a piece of performance art. It’ll
take the form of a hunt in period costume.’
Wesley followed him from the room and went in search of Pam. He’d had enough of games.
As Devon is a county rich in history and legend, it’s hard to resist taking inspiration from some of its fascinating stories.
There are many eerie tales of ghostly whisht hounds, which are said to roam the countryside, particularly around Dartmoor.
In Buckfastleigh, a squire called Richard Cabell, who died in 1677, was reputed to have been so wicked that his tomb had to
be enclosed in an iron grille so that his spirit couldn’t escape and terrorise the living – this grille can still be seen
to this day. It is said that he was chased to his death by a pack of phantom hounds and this legend was possibly the inspiration
for one of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s most famous Sherlock Holmes stories,
The Hound of the Baskervilles.
Devon was notable hunting country (although, as far as I am aware, the kind of manhunts described in this book exist only
in my imagination). In the eighteenth and
nineteenth centuries, many squires and clergymen kept packs of hounds, the most famous of the ‘sporting parsons’ being the
Rev Jack Russell who was born in Dartmouth in 1795.
The county is dotted with many small manor houses, and in times gone by, some squires lived untouched by the elegant manners
adopted by most gentry of the time. At the end of the eighteenth century, a Squire Arscott of Tetcott in North Devon kept
a jester who used to swallow live mice to entertain his master’s guests.
In 1817, a young woman of exotic appearance who apparently didn’t speak a word of English (or any other known language for
that matter) turned up in Gloucestershire where she intrigued and enchanted the local gentry and convinced them she was a
‘Princess of Javasu’ called Caraboo. She became quite a celebrity, but the wide circulation of her story led to her being
unmasked as Mary Baker, a young woman from a poor Devon family who had developed a mischievous taste for adventure. Fortunately,
she did not meet Pegassa’s fate, and it is believed that she ended up in America (although what became of her there isn’t
known).
Napoleon Bonaparte did indeed visit South Devon when HMS
Bellerophon
dropped anchor in Tor Bay (in view of the fortress at Berry Head near Brixham, which had been built to defend the coast against
French invasion) on 24th July 1815 to await instructions regarding his final destination.
During his visit, he displayed composure and great charm, praising the beauty of the Devon countryside. He remained on deck,
attracting many sightseers in small vessels and the sea was said to have been so crowded with boats during his
visit that it resembled dry land. Sailors aboard the
Bellerophon
even used blackboards to keep the crowds informed of the imperial passenger’s movements. The
Bellerophon
eventually received instructions to sail to Plymouth where Bonaparte was transferred to the
Northumberland for
his final journey to St. Helena in the South Atlantic where he died six years later.