‘What can you tell us about the locum, Dr Cheshlare?’ Wesley asked, watching the retired nanny’s face carefully.
Miss Buchanan frowned.
‘You do remember him?’
‘Oh yes, Inspector. I remember him all right.’ The way she said the words made Wesley hopeful that she had something interesting
to say.
‘And?’
Miss Buchanan considered her reply for a few moments and cleared her throat. ‘I’ll tell you what I told James – he seemed
very interested in Dr Cheshlare as well. Most of Dr Clipton’s patients got on all right with him but on a couple of occasions
there were …’ She hesitated. ‘How shall I put it? Murmurings.’
‘There were complaints against him?’
She shook her head vigorously. ‘Oh no, nothing as strong as that. It was just that he didn’t seem very … well, in those days
they would have said he didn’t have a very good bedside manner. He wasn’t a good listener, I’m told. Now I’m not saying that
he wasn’t dedicated. He was always reading medical text books. It was just that he didn’t have much empathy with people. Not
like Dr Clipton – he was very popular.’
‘What was Cheshlare’s relationship with Mrs Clipton?’
Miss Buchanan looked up sharply. ‘Well, I don’t think they were up to any hanky panky if that’s what you mean. I made that
quite clear to James too. In fact I believe they were related – I think that’s how he got the post.’
Wesley and Gerry looked at each other. This was something new.
‘You don’t know how they were related?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t.’ She picked up the album again and
started to flick through the pages. ‘Here he is,’ she said, handing it to Wesley. ‘That’s Dr Cheshlare with Dr Clipton.’
Wesley studied the photograph. It was rather clearer than the one he’d already seen and once again he had a strong sense that
he had seen Dr Cheshlare somewhere before, although he had no idea where or under what circumstances. He handed the picture
to Gerry who stared at it intently.
‘Did Dr Cheshlare tell you anything about himself ?’ Wesley asked.
‘He never said much to me. He wasn’t one for pleasantries, although he could be quite charming if he wanted to be. I wasn’t
any use to him, you see. I was only the nanny.’ She said the words as a matter of fact without any resentment.
‘Where did he live?’
‘In a rented cottage about fifty yards from the surgery.’
‘Did he mix with the Cliptons socially?’
Miss Buchanan considered the question. ‘I saw him a few times talking to Mrs Clipton. And I had the impression they weren’t
just passing the time of day.’
Wesley leaned forward. ‘What do you mean?’
‘They’d sometimes whisper in corners as though they were sharing a secret. But don’t ask me what it was. If they were related
perhaps it was a family matter.’ She hesitated. ‘However, I’ll tell you one thing. Dr Cheshlare was a liar.’
‘How do you mean, love?’ said Gerry.
Both men sat perfectly still, awaiting the reply.
‘He lied about which hospital he’d trained at. He said he studied at Bart’s in London. I trained as a nurse there and I never
came across him. I thought I’d test him one day so I asked him if he remembered a senior surgeon there. He
said he remembered him well and he agreed with me when I said what an old tyrant he was.’ A mischievous grin spread across
her face. ‘Trouble is, I’d made the name up. There was no such surgeon. He’d never been at Bart’s in his life.’
‘So you’re saying he was an impostor?’
‘Like I said, he spent a lot of time with those text books – reading up on the job, I reckon. They say if you have enough
confidence and you look the part, you can get away with anything, don’t they?’
‘So you think he might not have been a qualified doctor at all?’
The answer was a shrug.
‘Did you mention your suspicions to anyone? Dr Clipton maybe?’
Miss Buchanan took a deep breath. ‘I did as a matter of fact. But he said Dr Cheshlare was a relative of his wife’s and he
trusted him implicitly. He said no patient had ever complained about him and that he’d probably only agreed with me out of
politeness.’
‘Did you take the matter any further?’
She shook her head. ‘Shortly afterwards Mrs Clipton was murdered and all hell broke loose, as they say.’
‘Where was Dr Cheshlare when she was murdered?’ Wesley asked.
‘I said all this in court. When I found the body and I couldn’t find Dr Clipton, I dashed to Dr Cheshlare’s cottage. He’d
just had his evening meal – I could see the dishes on the draining board. And I think he must have been preparing for bed
because he was in his dressing gown.’
There was a long silence before Wesley spoke again. ‘The victim was strangled but her face had also been disfigured. The murderer
would have had blood on his clothes.’
‘Yes. There was blood on Dr Clipton’s clothes – but while I was at Dr Cheshlare’s he said he went looking for his wife and
when he found her he carried her upstairs and put her on the bed. He would have got blood on him then, of course. However,
there was lots of other evidence against him, you know. And he had a very good motive, didn’t he? That wife of his led him
a merry dance and he just snapped.’
Enid Buchanan looked worried. After years of certainty she’d now been presented with the dreadful possibility that her evidence
had helped to send an innocent man to the gallows.
‘You say Cheshlare was wearing his dressing gown when you called,’ said Gerry. ‘But what if, rather than fancying an early
night, he’d got undressed because he was covered in blood?’
‘But why would he do it? He had nothing against Mrs Clipton.’ Miss Buchanan straightened her back. ‘If he was going to kill
anyone because they found out he was a fraud, it would have been me.’
She had a point, Wesley thought.
‘And besides, I don’t think Dr Cheshlare was alone when I called.’
‘Really?’
‘I saw a woman’s blouse draped over the back of one of the chairs – at least it looked like a woman’s blouse. I think he was
– entertaining. That would explain why he seemed so flustered, of course.’
‘But you don’t know who the woman was?’
She shook her head. ‘Mind you there were those who said …’
‘Said what?’
She pressed her lips together. ‘Well, it was just gossip and I never repeat gossip.’
‘Oh, I think it’s OK in this case, love,’ Gerry piped up. ‘There’s been many a good conviction secured by a good bit of gossip.’
Miss Buchanan nodded. ‘Well, a woman was seen leaving his house on more than one occasion and one of the girls who cleaned
for him said he had a secret wardrobe full of women’s clothes. She reckoned he had a secret mistress but nobody ever saw her,
as far as I know.’
‘They might have been his,’ Wesley said tentatively, glancing at Gerry. ‘He might have enjoyed dressing up.’
‘Anything’s possible, I suppose,’ she said, a smile playing on her lips. ‘But it’s not something that anyone considered at
the time.’
‘Did you mention this to James?’
She thought for a moment. ‘I think I told him more or less everything I’ve told you. Although I was careful to use a certain
amount of tact. I mean, they were his parents after all.’
Wesley began to stare at the picture of Cheshlare again. There was definitely something familiar about the man, if only he
could think what it was. Or maybe it was his imagination. ‘Do you mind if we borrow this picture? Our Forensic people might
be able to enhance the image. We’ll let you have it back.’
‘Of course, Inspector. Please take it.’
Wesley took a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and carefully slipped the photograph inside.
‘In fact I had a much better picture of Dr Cheshlare. I’ve always liked taking photographs – memories of people I’ve met.
I don’t think he knew I was taking it but anyway, I showed it to James and he asked if he could borrow it.’
‘And did he?’
‘Yes. I said he could keep it. Have you found it?’
‘Was it one of him with the Cliptons?’
‘No. It was just of Dr Cheshlare.’
‘In that case we haven’t found it,’ said Wesley. ‘Thank you, Miss Buchanan,’ he said as he stood up to go, anxious to get
the photo to the lab. Perhaps his luck would be in this time: perhaps this picture of Cheshlare was the key to the whole thing.
When Wesley’s mobile began to ring, he was on the road. Gerry answered it and Wesley tried to make sense of the one-sided
conversation without much success.
When he’d finished Gerry ended the call. ‘Well, that’s a turn up,’ he said with a puzzled frown.
‘What is?’
‘You know you thought the kid in the grave must be Charlie – Isabelle’s cousin who vanished? That was the head teacher of
Tradington Primary. She’s been doing a bit of research – ringing round other schools and that. Anyway, she said a Charlie
Haslem enrolled at Stokeworthy County Primary School around the time he disappeared from Tailors Court. Belle told the truth.
He did change his billet. Apparently it was quite common back then. Charlie’s not our corpse.’
‘So who is?’
Gerry shook his head. ‘No idea. We’ll have to do some more digging in the old missing persons records.’
Wesley drove on, saying nothing for a while. Then Gerry broke the silence.
‘So if Charlie didn’t die, and Nanny Buchanan’s right about Dr Cheshlare being Isabelle’s cousin …’
‘Cheshlare and Charlie Haslem could be the same person.’
‘Why the change of name?’
‘Perhaps there was something in his past he wanted to hide.’ Wesley suddenly gave a smile of realisation. ‘Charlie Haslem
– Liam Cheshlare. It’s an anagram. Why didn’t I see it before?’
‘You weren’t looking for it, that’s why.’
‘And he’d lied to Miss Buchanan about training at Bart’s.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Gerry said. ‘Why was Isabelle Clipton’s face bashed in?’
‘Maybe the victim wasn’t Isabelle Clipton. Maybe they got it all wrong back then and she’s still around. Maybe the dead woman
was Cheshlare’s mysterious girlfriend.’
Neither man said much until they reached the incident room. If Wesley was wrong, it would be back to square one.
*
Neil Watson had just been back to Tailors Court to bring the Persimmons up to date with his findings, which was really an
excuse to have another look at the wall paintings in the upstairs room. He’d taken a colleague who was doing a doctorate in
medieval and Tudor wall paintings along with him but he’d hurried back to Exeter for some unspecified social event. So when
Nuala Johns’s call came Neil was at a loose end and was only too glad to meet up with her at the White Horse.
Neil bought the drinks – a half for himself and a vodka and tonic for Nuala – and joined her at the table.
She leaned forward and touched his hand gently, a gossamer brush of skin against skin. ‘I really need some help with my article
– these skeletons at Tailors Court. I’m going for the early medical experiments angle. Body snatching and dissection. How
the pioneers of medicine had to break
taboos and go to extreme lengths to push the boundaries of knowledge. Does that sound sufficiently sexy to you?’
‘Sounds fine,’ he said before taking a long drink. ‘When the bones have been examined, the vicar’s going to rebury them in
the churchyard.’
‘Now that would make a great photo opportunity,’ Nuala said with a satisfied smile on her face.
There was a pause in the conversation and Neil sensed that there was something on Nuala’s mind; something that didn’t concern
archaeology.
‘I wanted to see Wesley but I can’t get hold of him. Any idea where he is?’ She must have seen his expression of disappointment
because her hand moved upwards to give his cheek a lingering touch. ‘Not that you’re second choice, of course, Neil.’
This woman was a flirt. But Neil was enjoying every minute, even though he had a strong suspicion that she was only using
him to further her own ambitions and maybe get to Wesley.
‘What did you want to see him about?’
‘I’ve been talking to my gran. The police have been asking questions about the evacuees at Tailors Court so I’m going to try
to trace them. I’ve got a friend who works for one of those probate researchers in London – he’s used to tracing people who’ve
disappeared into the wide blue yonder.’
‘Good luck,’ said Neil. His mobile phone began to ring and when he answered it he heard Annabel’s voice on the other end of
the line. ‘I’m e-mailing you an extract from a book you might be interested in. It’s out of print now but I came across a
copy in the archives. It’s a history of the village of Tradington by a man called Clifford Hilton.’
Neil thanked her and looked at Nuala who was watching him expectantly. ‘Who was that?’ she asked.
‘Got to go,’ he said mysteriously, enjoying her look of frustrated disappointment. Some people were just too nosy for their
own good.
Roz Dalcott arrived at the offices of Green and Talbot, solicitors, just as they were about to close. She took the envelope
from the receptionist then she left, closing the door carefully behind her, and stood on the pavement outside for a while,
staring at the thick A4 envelope with her name on the front.
To be opened in the event of my death
.
She resisted the temptation to rip it open there and then and half walked, half ran back to her car, pulling her coat closely
around her against the biting wind. After making herself comfortable in the driver’s seat she flicked on the overhead light,
unsealed the end of the envelope and pulled out three sheets of handwritten paper.
‘
I’m hoping you won’t be reading this
,’ it began. ‘
But I’ve made certain discoveries in the course of my research into my family and I feel I must write them down here in order
to clear my father’s name. He died at the end of a hangman’s rope but now I know he died an innocent man. I am leaving this
with the solicitors in case I don’t have the chance to complete my investigation and finally bring my mother’s murderer to
justice
.’
She read on, her heart sinking. James had been living in his own fantasy world, she thought as two photographs – one monochrome
black and white, the other recent and coloured – fluttered out of the papers she was holding and landed on her knee. And what
he’d written was surely quite impossible to prove one way or the other. She picked the photos up and looked at them. She recognised
one of the faces although she’d only seen the person in question a
couple of times. But she had to acknowledge that the two people were certainly alike. However, if she went to the police,
she might be making a fool of herself, and of James.