There was no sign of Orford – or anybody else for that matter – so Neil parked on a patch of weed-infested gravel in front
of the house and walked up to the front door. If anyone expected him to use the tradesman’s entrance, they were going to be
disappointed. There was a cheap plastic
doorbell beside the big oak door which looked as out of place as a Post-it note stuck on the nose of the Mona Lisa. He pressed
it and waited. And when nothing happened he pressed it again.
‘Sorry. It doesn’t work. I keep meaning to get it fixed.’
Neil turned and saw a man standing on the drive next to his car. He was in his early thirties, Neil guessed, average height
with ginger hair and freckles. He strode up to Neil, hand outstretched.
‘Richard Catton. I presume you’re the archaeologist.’
‘Neil Watson – County Archaeological Unit.’ Neil shook hands. Catton’s grip was weak and his palms felt a little clammy.
He looked round. ‘I’m not sure where Kevin’s got to. He said he’d be here at three.’ Their eyes met in understanding and Neil
suspected he’d found an ally. ‘What do you make of his … project?’
Neil considered his answer for a moment. ‘It sounds mad on the surface but, archaeologically speaking, it might be quite interesting.
It’ll give us a chance to test the rate of decomposition of various organic materials. I’ve got a team working a couple of
miles away at Fortress Point.’
‘I’ve heard about that. How’s it going?’
‘Very well. We’re looking for the foundations of the prefabricated barracks in a corner of the site that hasn’t been investigated.
We’ve had some interesting finds; personal possessions of the garrison and that sort of thing. I might take a couple of colleagues
off that to give me a hand with Kevin’s project for a couple of days but mainly I’m planning to use a few post-grad students
who are interested in the scientific branch of archaeology.’
‘I was afraid you’d think Kevin was wasting your time. I told him he’d be lucky if he got you to co-operate.’
‘Like I said, it might be interesting. And of course my unit’s always looking for funding.’
Catton gave him a conspiratorial smile. ‘He’s paying me rather generously too. Lord knows where he gets all his money from,
but ours not to reason why, eh.’
Neil smiled. ‘I expect people have done far worse things for money.’
‘I see you two have met.’
The two men swung round to see Kevin Orford striding down the drive towards them. He was carrying a large patchwork bag slung
across his shoulder and his calculating, determined expression seemed more suited to a businessman than an artist.
‘I take it you’ve managed to draft in some help, Neil.’
‘We can start on Monday if that’s OK?’
‘Not tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow’s Sunday.’
‘And archaeologists always observe the Sabbath? How delightfully archaic.’
Neil felt a sudden impulse to defend himself. ‘It’s the weekend. A lot of the students taking part will be away … or hung-over.’
‘I would have preferred tomorrow. Some people from Tate Modern are down for the weekend and they wanted to be present when
the digging begins.’
‘If you’d given me more notice I might have been able to arrange something.’ Orford was really starting to irritate him, but
he tried to keep visualising the promised cheque. He saw Catton was looking a little wary, as though he was afraid of causing
offence.
‘Have you told him yet?’ Orford’s question was directed at Catton and the words were barked like an order.
Neil wondered how this jumped-up artist had the temerity to speak to the son of the landowner in that way. Here was a man
who knew the balance of power. And it seemed it was in his favour.
Catton cleared his throat. ‘My father’s writing a book about one of our ancestors and Kevin’s been talking to him about his
research.’
Orford interrupted. ‘I’ve had an idea for a new artwork linked to the history of this house. It’s a piece of performance art
and I plan to film it to create an installation.’
‘Some sort of re-enactment, is it?’
Neil earned himself a disdainful look. ‘Not a re-enactment – a visualisation. It will be my next work after Feast of Life
Revisited. Richard’s ancestor used to keep a jester whose journal was found in the family archives. Alfred’s allowed me to
read it.’
‘Alfred’s my father,’ said Richard by way of explanation.
Orford ignored him. ‘The jester was called John Tandy but he was commonly known as Silly John. When I learned about his life
the concept suddenly came to me.’
‘What concept?’ Neil asked, curious now.
‘A hunt. But we’ll have no objection from the animal rights lobby.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘We hunt human beings, that’s why.’
Neil glanced at Richard Catton and he was surprised to see that he looked worried.
*
It was the height of the tourist season, so the craft workshops in the converted barn on the outskirts of the village of Stoke
Raphael were open for business all weekend.
When Trish had returned to the incident room and told DCI Heffernan what she’d learned from Steven Bowles, he’d announced
that as it was a pleasant day and he needed some fresh air, he’d come with her to the workshops to see if they could find
anyone who knew Tessa Trencham. She forced herself to smile. The DCI’s blunt approach didn’t go down well with everyone, especially
those of a nervous, criminal or artistic disposition.
He asked her whether she’d managed to contact Sylvia Cartland and Carl Heckerty, the individuals who’d provided Morbay Properties
with Tessa’s references, and she had to tell him that she’d had no luck as yet. But she’d keep trying.
She drove them out to Stoke Raphael. The roads were packed with tourists, all wanting a Saturday afternoon out in the resort
of Morbay, and when they reached Stoke Raphael all the available parking spaces had already been taken by visitors who had
come to gaze at the village’s attractions: the thousand year old yew tree in the churchyard; the picturesque pubs and the
waterfront. When Trish eventually managed to park, a wooden fingerpost directed them to the Craft Centre by way of the riverside
path.
‘Lovely day,’ said Gerry, turning his face towards the sun.
‘Not for Tessa Trencham,’ Trish said softly.
‘The poor woman’s in a better place, Trish.’
‘You believe that, sir?’
‘Don’t you?’
Trish didn’t reply. Questions of life and death seemed
too overwhelming just at that moment. She changed the subject to something more comfortable and mundane.
‘We haven’t been able to trace any next of kin.’
‘It’s early days.’
‘Didn’t Dr Bowman say she’d had a child?’
‘It could have been adopted. Or died. There was certainly no sign of a child in that house.’
‘We don’t really know anything about her life, do we?’
It was Gerry’s turn to fall silent. They walked on, and as they rounded a bend the Craft Centre came into view. The agricultural
origins of the building could be seen if you looked carefully but the old barn had been so comprehensively modernised that
any farm hand who’d worked there back in the days of its original purpose would hardly have recognised it. Today the place
was crowded with visitors in shorts and bright summer dresses flocking around the huge arched entrance. Whining children armed
with ice creams were being dragged along by overheated parents and sullen men were being coaxed towards the shopping experience
by their eager wives. Trish knew that similar scenes would be playing out at every shopping centre in the land, but in these
normally tranquil rural surroundings, they seemed a little out of place.
‘I think we’ve chosen a bad time,’ Gerry observed. But, undeterred, he edged his way past the crowd and soon they were inside
the building where small shops lined the walls, each with its own workshop space at the rear so that the public could see
the items for sale being created.
‘This place must be a gold mine in high season,’ Trish said. ‘No wonder she could afford the rent on that house.’
‘I bet trade’s not so good in winter though,’ the DCI replied, looking round for any sign of a jewellery shop,
possibly one that was closed up because its owner was lying in the mortuary at Morbay Hospital.
‘I’ve counted five jewellery places so far. All of them open for business.’
‘She might have an assistant or a business partner. We’ll have to visit them all.’ Gerry rooted in his trouser pocket and
drew out his warrant card.
At the fourth shop they tried, Trish knew they had found the right place because the jewellery on display bore a strong resemblance
to the stuff they’d found at Lister Cottage. She gave the boss a nudge and they steamed in past a pair of women who appeared
to be deciding between two almost identical silver bracelets. A stick-thin, middle-aged woman was watching them, arms folded
as though she suspected they were intent on foul play. Trish imagined they’d have a lot of trouble with shoplifters – especially
with the prices they charged.
When the woman spotted Gerry, she fixed him with a stare as though she regarded him as a hostile invader. Even when he held
up his warrant card for her to examine and whispered that he’d like a word – nothing to worry about; just routine – she gave
him a look that would curdle milk.
After calling across to a girl leaning on the counter in the shop next door to ask her to keep an eye on things, she took
the newcomers to one side. She stood next to the glittering display on the back wall, her eyes flickering towards the precious
items on show.
‘Do you own this shop?’ Gerry began.
‘Yes. Why?’
Gerry nodded to Trish who took out her notebook.
‘What’s your name, love?’
‘Sylvia Cartland.’
Trish caught Gerry’s eye. ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you,’ she said.
The woman scowled. ‘Is this about those shoplifters we had last week? Because if it is, you’ve taken your time—’
‘It’s not about shoplifting. We want to talk to you because you provided a reference for a Tessa Trencham. We think Ms Trencham
might own one of these units.’
Suddenly Sylvia expression changed. ‘Tessa’s my business partner. Why? What’s this about?’
Trish saw Gerry assume the sympathetic look of one who’s about to break bad news. He had brought the rings the dead woman
was wearing with him in a plastic evidence bag, along with the jewellery found in the dressing table. When he took the bag
from his jacket pocket he handed it to Sylvia. ‘Do you recognise these items?’
As she examined them it was hard to read her thoughts. After a few seconds she handed it back to him. ‘Yes. They’re all ours.
But unless a customer’s paid by cheque or credit card—’
‘Does Tessa Trencham own jewellery like this?’
‘She makes it, so it’s hardly surprising that she wears it.’
He fished the E-fit picture of the dead woman out of his pocket and thrust it into Sylvia’s unwilling hand. ‘Could this be
Tessa?’
She gave a snort of derision. ‘It could be, but on the other hand it could be anybody. Why are you asking all these questions?’
‘Yesterday a woman was found dead at Tessa’s address. She’s not been formally identified yet but we think it may be her. I’m
sorry.’
To Trish’s amazement a smile appeared on the woman’s face; a smile with a hint of triumph, as though
she had access to secret knowledge which was beyond their reach.
‘You’ve made a mistake, Chief Inspector. Tessa’s staying in France for a while and I assure you she’s fine. She warned me
that she intended to leave her phone switched off while she was over there because she didn’t want any interruptions while
she was working on her new designs. She’s the creative one in our partnership, you see. But she popped into a nearby town
to stock up on supplies and called me just to make sure everything was all right at this end. I spoke to her this morning.’
‘This morning? Are you sure?’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘So who was the woman in her house then?’ Trish couldn’t resist asking the question.
Sylvia Cartland shrugged. ‘I really have no idea.’
The Jester’s Journal
27 May 1815
She arrived like a gift, wrapped in a gown of shabby, red muslin with a cloth swathed around her head in a most exotic manner.
I have seen such hats in illustrations of strange and colourful people from far-away lands but I had never seen such a thing
in reality. She wore a tall peacock feather tucked into the folds of her hat so that it stood erect upon her head and her
gown was voluminous and most curious, like a costume in a play.
It was her attire I noted first. Then I took note of the woman within the dress. She was small and slender with a swarthy
complexion and darting, watchful brown eyes which took in the drawing room as though she had never seen the like before. Upon
the Squire’s orders our sober steward brought her within the house but kept his distance
from her as if he imagined she might corrupt him and contaminate him with her exotic ways.
Her ways, I must confess, seemed strange to me. For she treats us all as a princess would treat her minions. Her head held
high, she gazed in my direction, seeing yet not seeing, as though I was beneath her attention. Her manner towards the Squire
was similarly haughty and yet I could tell from the first that he had fallen under some spell the girl had cast. Was she a
demon come to claim his soul? I asked myself. Or had he met her in some other life – on one of his visits to his cousin’s
estate perhaps? I would assume my role and question him closely – for any impertinence is tolerated if it comes from the lips
of a Fool.
The young woman spoke no English but conversed in a strange tongue that even the Squire did not appear to recognise – and
in his youth he had travelled to many parts of Europe. She made her desires known by giving signs, the meaning of which were
quite comprehensible to all. When asked her name she merely said ‘Pegassa’ in a firm, clear voice. Whether it was her name
or an order, I have no idea, but it became her title from that moment on. The Lady Pegassa.