‘I was talking to the press officer earlier and the local TV people seem keen on doing this Mabel and Pat item on the bulletin
tonight,’ Rachel continued. ‘They’ll probably want to interview the daughter – Sandra, I think her name is.’
‘Good. It’s about time we found Mabel Cleary.’
Rachel hesitated. ‘Any chance that she’s the woman in the river?’
Wesley shook his head. ‘I doubt it. The descriptions don’t match.’
‘Well, that’s one blessing. You’d better not keep the lady waiting,’ Rachel said pointedly as Wesley turned to go.
He smiled to himself and pretended he hadn’t heard.
It took ten minutes to reach the Star from the police station. It was an ivy-clad Georgian building with an impressive portico
situated at a crossroads by the river: one of those small-town hotels with a good reputation that, over the years, had become
a hub of social activity: the local choice for dinner dances, wedding receptions and Rotary Club Meetings. Wesley dawdled
at the entrance for a few moments before going in. He presumed Nuala intended to meet him in the bar rather than the expensive
restaurant – at least he hoped so.
He was just wondering whether he’d bump into Nick Tarnaby and Mabel’s daughter, Sandra, while he was there, when Nuala arrived,
walking slowly down the road towards him as though she had all the time in the world. Wesley felt a stab of irritation but
he forced his features into a businesslike smile and extended a hand, determined to keep the encounter on a professional footing.
Nuala’s skimpy jacket and mini-skirt left little to the imagination and her only concession to the autumnal chill was a pair
of Ugg boots. As they shook hands her eyes met his and she smiled a smile that would have made most men’s pulses beat a little
faster. But Wesley was well aware that she was an ambitious journalist out for nobody but herself. Given half a chance she’d
destroy his career to get a good story.
‘Let’s find a seat,’ he said as he stood aside to let her lead the way.
They ordered their food at the bar and when they were settled with their drinks – Nuala with a dry white wine and Wesley with
a head-clearing orange juice – Nuala
edged a little closer. Wesley stared ahead, focusing his eyes on the hand pumps on the bar.
‘Relax,’ she said, touching his arm.
‘Sorry, it’s been a busy week. I presume you know about this elderly woman who’s gone missing?’
Nuala grunted. ‘Mabel Cleary? That’s old news.’
‘They’re doing a TV appeal tonight. You know the sort of thing – does anyone know where she is? And who is the Pat she came
down here to see?’
‘I think James Dalcott’s a much sexier story than some wrinkly who’s chosen to go walkabout,’ said Nuala taking a sip of wine.
‘Any developments?’
‘You’ll be the first to know, I promise.’ Wesley picked up his drink.
‘And those skeletons at Tailors Court? Now that’s a really sexy story. I’m working on a big feature about it.’
‘You might want to talk to Neil Watson. He’s in charge of the excavation so they’re more his concern than mine.’
‘Oh, Dr Watson.’ She giggled. ‘You’re old pals, I believe. Dr Watson and the Great Detective. Where have I heard that one
before?’
‘That’s an old joke, I’m afraid. And yes, we have known each other a long while. We were at university together.’
‘Doing archaeology.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So have you found out any more about the child’s skeleton?’
Wesley was about to put his glass to his lips but he lowered it. ‘We’re not ready to make a statement about that just yet.
As soon as …’
‘You rang my uncle, didn’t you? You wanted to speak to my gran.’
Wesley had almost forgotten that she was the granddaughter of Mary Haynes from Gorfleet Farm, right next door to Tailors Court.
She hardly looked the sort to belong in a farm setting.
‘Did you know that the new owner of Tailors Court used to work for Pharmitest – the company who own the Podingham Clinic where
James Dalcott worked part-time? How’s that for coincidence, eh?’
This was news to Wesley. But then why should Tony Persimmon have thought it worth mentioning?
‘How did you find out?’
Nuala gave one of her irritatingly smug smiles. ‘Easy. I Googled him. Don’t you have computers down at the police station?’
Wesley didn’t answer. Such a link had never occurred to him and he felt a little annoyed with himself. But before he could
think up anything to say in his defence, Nuala changed the subject.
‘You work with the Tracey girl, don’t you? Rachel, isn’t it? I used to see her around sometimes.’ She gave a knowing smile.
‘Bossy little piece. I can imagine she’d enjoy slapping the handcuffs on. I think there was something between her and my cousin
Nigel at one time. Not that he’s ever said anything about it.’
Wesley raised his eyebrows. He’d sensed that there was some history between her and Nigel Haynes. But Rachel wasn’t one to
broadcast the ups and downs of her relationships so the details would probably remain shrouded in mystery.
But Nuala seemed to have become bored with the subject of Rachel. ‘So why do you want to speak to my gran?’
‘She was living at Tailors Court during the war. She came down here as a land girl, I believe.’
‘That’s right.’
‘How is she?’
‘Gran’s pretty indestructible. She’s due out of hospital any time now. Do you think she might know something about the child’s
skeleton?’
‘Has she ever talked about her time at Tailors Court.’
‘Not to me she hasn’t. I think she was too busy snogging in haystacks with granddad and a few assorted GIs to notice much
of what was going on around her.’ She grinned. ‘Snogging – that’s a delightfully old-fashioned word, isn’t it? These days
it’d just be fucking.’
Wesley saw that she was watching him, trying to gauge his reaction. But he kept his expression neutral. It was time to steer
the conversation away from Mary’s love life. ‘You said you had something to tell me.’
She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I’ve got hold of some information about James Dalcott and I thought I’d be a public-spirited
citizen and share it with the police.’ She drained her glass and put it down. ‘Buy me another drink and I’ll tell you what
it is.’
Wesley didn’t feel inclined to argue. He went to the bar and by the time he returned their food had arrived – sandwiches for
him and something piping hot with a thick crust for Nuala. She ate a few mouthfuls of pie hungrily before putting her knife
and fork down.
‘James Dalcott was the son of a murderer,’ she said before taking another sip of wine.
‘I know.’
Nuala’s expression of disappointment when he uttered those two words gave Wesley a frisson of satisfaction.
After a few more sips of wine she spoke again. ‘You can’t know. It was all hushed up. I had the devil’s own job researching
his background. I had to get hold of birth and adoption certificates and –’
‘And you thought the police were too dim to do all that themselves?’ He was trying hard not to gloat. ‘We found out pretty
early on.’
‘And you don’t think it’s relevant?’
‘To be honest I can’t see a connection. Can you?’
Nuala looked quite crestfallen for a few seconds. Then she bounced back. ‘That body-snatching I told you about – Simon Garchard
…’
Wesley was about to take another bite of his tuna sandwich but he stopped in midair and put it back on his plate.
‘I found something about it in the churchwardens’ accounts of St Petroc’s church, Tradington. Dated 1594.’ She began to delve
into her handbag. ‘Here, I took a copy.’
She handed Wesley a few photocopied sheets. The handwriting was difficult to decipher but after a while he found that he could
just about make out the words. ‘
The graveyard has lately been disturbed and the body of Ralph Printon, the blacksmith, was stolen by evil doers.
’ An entry dated two months later on the next sheet told a similar story. ‘
The churchyard has again been desecrated and the body of Mistress Lettice Venmore who lately died in child bed stolen by villainous
persons. Prayers have been offered for the safe return of the remains.
’
There was another entry, almost identical, on another sheet. Three weeks after Mistress Lettice Venmore’s mortal remains vanished,
the ‘villainous persons’ were at it again. One of the victims was Harry Batch, the late landlord of the Courtenay Arms in
Tradington Village. The name of the pub was familiar to Wesley – he had had a rather good
lunch there with Pam the previous summer. And at the same time the grave of a young woman called Alys Tye, a pauper, was similarly
desecrated.
He handed the sheets back to Nuala. ‘Very interesting. But what’s it got to do with me?’
‘All these bodies went missing when Simon Garchard was in residence at Tailors Court. If he fancied himself as a doctor and
he needed bodies for dissection, where better to get them from than the local churchyard? I found the accounts for Belsham
church as well. They lost the bodies of two young women – that’s six in all – and none of them were ever found. How many has
Neil turned up at Tailors Court?’
‘Six,’ Wesley answered quietly.
‘I think if you give Neil the details of all those missing corpses, he’ll be able to match them to his skeletons.’
‘But wouldn’t it have been a bit obvious?’ said Wesley, trying to hide his excitement at the likely solution to Neil’s mystery.
‘Presumably Simon Garchard was an intelligent man who’d know better than to foul his own doorstep.’
‘You’d think so. But the Garchards were gentry so perhaps nobody dared to say anything. You know the story of Elizabeth Bathory?’
‘Remind me.’
‘She was a Hungarian countess who systematically tortured and murdered hundreds of young women but, because of her social
position, nobody spoke against her. It was decades before she was found out. And then only when she went too far – just like
Garchard did when he killed the maidservant.’
Wesley nodded wearily.
‘Things like that happened all through history,’ she
continued. ‘Wealth has always allowed certain people to buy others and treat them like possessions.’ She looked him in the
eye. ‘Look at slavery. That affected some of your ancestors, at a guess?’ She inclined her head, waiting for a reaction.
‘Yes. Greed can make men sink pretty low,’ he said quietly.
‘Or the desire for power, or knowledge. Dominion over nature.’
Wesley looked at her curiously. She’d clearly thought all this out. Perhaps he’d underestimated her. ‘So how long after these
bodies went missing was Garchard tried for murder?’
‘About eight months.’
‘Perhaps people’s patience finally ran out. Maybe he was suspected of this body-snatching but nothing could be proved. Then
the maidservant died and they grabbed the opportunity to nail him once and for all.’
Nuala didn’t answer. There was a long silence while she finished her meal and Wesley watched her tucking in hungrily. She
was probably one of those women Pam always said she envied, he thought. A woman who could eat like a horse and stay as thin
as a supermodel.
‘It might be interesting to see what was said at his trial,’ Wesley continued. ‘Perhaps when I get the Dalcott case out of
the way.’
Nuala looked up. ‘It’ll be in Latin, won’t it?’
‘My Latin’s a bit rusty but I can still get by,’ he said, suddenly feeling a little smug that she’d underestimated him. ‘But
I’ve got rather a lot on at the moment.’ He took a last bite of his sandwich and pushed his plate away. ‘I’d better be going.’
To his surprise Nuala reached out and took hold of his arm as he stood up. He looked down and saw her slim, ringless hand
resting on his sleeve.
‘Don’t go. We’re still getting to know each other.’
He picked up the hand gently. ‘Sorry. If you discover anything else …’
‘I don’t suppose you’re free tonight?’ she said. She had inclined her head to one side and there was a definite invitation
in her blue eyes. ‘I’ll probably have found out lots more about Simon Garchard by then.’
‘Sorry. I’m tied up.’
‘Then untie yourself.’
‘Another time maybe.’
She pouted in mock disappointment and Wesley wondered whether to make a throwaway remark about his wife not seeing much of
him. However, he stayed silent. Some instinct told him that if she thought he was unavailable, the flow of information might
dry up completely. He gave her an apologetic smile. ‘Maybe.’
As he left the bar he didn’t look back. And when he reached Reception the sight of Nick Tarnaby with a middle-aged woman drove
all thoughts of Nuala Johns out of his mind.
Gerry Heffernan put down the telephone receiver and sighed. This was getting him nowhere. No hospital in the vicinity had
mislaid a female patient – or any patient come to that. He clenched his fist and gave the desk a halfhearted punch. But before
he could put more effort into venting his frustration, he heard a voice. ‘Sir. Could I have a word?’
He looked up and saw Trish Walton standing there. All
of a sudden he felt glad of the company. It could be lonely at the top sometimes and Gerry was a gregarious man.
‘Hi, Trish, sit yourself down. What can I do you for?’
She smiled dutifully at the feeble joke. ‘I’ve been checking out any private hospitals or clinics that our mystery woman
from the river might have used.’
‘And?’
‘I tried that clinic where James Dalcott worked. The Podingham Clinic.’
Gerry leaned forward expectantly. From the tone of Trish’s voice he could tell that she hadn’t altogether drawn a blank. There
was a glimmer of hope somewhere.
‘The person I spoke to, a Fiona Verdun, said the premises were sometimes used by surgeons to operate on private patients but
that it was usually fairly minor procedures.’
Gerry looked at her puzzled. ‘So?’
Trish hesitated. ‘It’s probably nothing. But I just got the feeling she sounded a bit evasive.’
Gerry thought for a moment. The Trish Walton he knew wasn’t prone to flights of fancy. She was level headed and maybe even
a little unimaginative. If she thought something was wrong it was probably because it was true.