Wesley took his coat from the stand and hurried out of the office before any of the DCs could waylay him.
It was just coming up to midday when he found Ian Petrie in the Ship Bar. He was sitting at the same table, almost as though
he hadn’t moved since their last meeting. In front of him sat a half-drunk cup of coffee. Wesley ordered one for himself before
sitting down.
Ian looked up and gave him a nervous smile. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept. ‘How’s your
investigation going? I take it you haven’t found out who attacked that girl the other night?’ The question sounded more than
casual somehow.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Any progress?’
Wesley leaned forward. He didn’t want to be overheard. ‘We’re looking for the girl’s mother’s ex-boyfriend. He was in the
pub the night she was attacked and he’s done a runner.’
‘Sounds promising. I read in the local rag that a young woman was attacked in Neston a few weeks ago. Could it be the same
man?’
Wesley’s coffee had arrived. He took a sip. It tasted good. ‘There are as many differences as there are similarities.’
‘That’s not what the paper said.’ Ian leaned over and picked up a discarded copy of the
Tradmouth Echo
. He passed it to Wesley who read the headline: ‘Dog Head Mystery of Tragic Girl. Is there link with Neston attack?’
Wesley didn’t normally swear but this was an exception. This had been something they wanted to keep to themselves but somebody
had talked to the local press. Gerry wouldn’t be pleased.
‘Dog’s head indeed. I take it the girl was on something. I’ve heard drugs are a big problem in these rural places.’
‘They are. But there’s no evidence that the victim had anything stronger than a few Bacardi Breezers on the night she was
attacked.’ He glanced at his watch. He had promised Gerry he’d only be half an hour. ‘Anyway, Ian, why did you want to see
me? Has there been a development?’
Ian Petrie drained his coffee cup and sat for a few moments, deep in thought. Then he spoke. ‘You know I mentioned Ra?’
‘Yes. Have you found out who he is yet?’
‘I’ve been making enquiries at various art galleries but I’ve drawn a blank. We got the name Ra from an e-mail found on the
computer of one of the people we arrested. “Ra will provide the usual service.” Then there was a note we found in a crate
full of dodgy artefacts. It was a list of numbers – prices we think – and the name Ra was at the top. Either they have great
faith in an Egyptian deity or this Ra is a codename for somebody involved in the organisation. Who knows? It would be really
helpful if you could look through your files and ask around – see if the name Ra rings any bells.’
‘I’ll do that, Ian. I’ll be in touch if I find anything.’ Wesley suddenly realised that Ian was expecting him to slip back
into his old role as right-hand man. And he really didn’t have the time.
He looked at his watch. He had to get to the pasty shop on the High Street to feed Gerry’s craving: he’d pick a pasty up for
himself while he was at it. At least it wasn’t the tourist season so there wouldn’t be any long queues.
‘Sorry, Ian, I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch.’
He finished his coffee and as he stood up a young woman appeared at the door. She spotted Ian and homed in on him like a guided
missile.
‘Excuse me, Mr Petrie. Sorry to interrupt but when you arrived on Saturday you didn’t tell us how long you were staying …’
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Wesley mouthed.
Ian raised a hand in farewell and as he left the young woman took his vacant seat.
But it wasn’t until he was inside the warm, steamy pasty shop, trying to peer through the condensation running down the windows
to see if had started to rain, that a thought suddenly struck him. Ian Petrie hadn’t been specific but Wesley had assumed
that he’d arrived on Monday morning. But now it seemed that he’d been there since Saturday.
Dr Andrew Beredace didn’t wear tweeds or a bow tie. Instead he wore jeans, sweatshirt and a weatherproof coat suitable for
a late February day on the edge of Dartmoor. He was about Neil’s age, or maybe a couple of years younger, and he had a shaven
head – sensibly covered by a woollen hat – and a gold stud in his ear. Neil Watson, unsure what to expect of an expert in
Egyptology from the British Museum, was pleasantly surprised. This was a man he could do business with – maybe even share
a pint or two down at the local with.
Andrew arrived at three o’clock and, after the initial introductions had been made, he and Neil made their way to the room
where Sir Frederick’s main collection was kept. So far Neil had only had a swift peep inside and had retreated, thinking he’d
wait for Andrew who knew so much more about that sort of thing than he did. In the dim light he had seen the statues and upright
mummy cases, standing there as if they were waiting to be discovered by some latter-day Howard Carter. The contents of Tutankhamen’s
tomb had
been described as wonderful. But as Neil gazed on the shadowy figures of death he thought the word terrible was more appropriate.
Some of the statues were recognisably human with blank, staring eyes outlined in black; others were fantastic creatures with
the bodies of men and the heads of beasts.
But it was the mummies themselves, desiccated human forms swathed in grey bandages lying in coffin-like glass cases, that
had discomforted him the most. He’d felt that they were about to rise up and turn their terrible, featureless heads to watch
him, resentful of his intrusion on their centuries of sleep. He wasn’t superstitious by nature but he could imagine why some
people thought they had the power to bestow terrible curses upon the living.
Andrew, however, had no such qualms. When Neil led him up to the room and pushed open the doors, the expert’s eyes lit up
like a child’s on Christmas morning. He strode across to open the shutters and then he obtained a stronger bulb from Caroline
which he fitted himself with the aid of a stepladder from a storeroom near the kitchen. Neil followed him round as he examined
the collection and watched him open the glass cases carefully to get a closer look at the dusty, bandaged remains inside.
Neil turned his attention to a display of miniature boats and small figurines depicting everyday activities. Although he knew
these had come from tombs, they didn’t bear the obvious taint of death.
After half an hour Neil had decided to leave Andrew to it. He’d had enough of Egyptian artefacts for one day and Caroline
had mentioned that somewhere in the grounds lay the ruins of an earlier house; a medieval stone manor house, abandoned since
the eighteenth century. This appealed to Neil more than all the tombs in the Valley of
the Kings, although he wouldn’t have admitted it to Andrew Beredace.
Andrew was too preoccupied to comment on his discreet departure and, relieved to be out of that airless shrine to death, Neil
made his way out of the front door and rounded the castle, keeping the towering granite walls to his right. From every angle
the views were spectacular; rolling hills of green and brown with skeletal trees reaching for the wide grey sky. In summer
the landscape would contain a hundred varied shades of green. But now it was bleak, cold and damp.
The back of the castle overlooked the river and a series of steep formal gardens led down to the river gorge. To the left
of the gardens was a large area of woodland where, according to Caroline, the remains of the old house could be found. Neil
walked down the gravel path and headed for the trees, trying to ignore the biting wind.
When he reached the wood he stopped and looked up at the bare branches overhead where crows cackled at him from their straggly
nests. Maybe this place would be lush and beautiful in summer but in winter it felt hostile and forbidding. Caroline had instructed
him to keep on the path and then turn off left at a large clearing so he walked on, alert to every sound: every rustle of
dead leaves and every twig that cracked like an echoing gunshot under his feet.
Suddenly he had an uncomfortable feeling that he wasn’t alone so he stopped and stood perfectly still. Sure enough he heard
a faint snapping of twigs a short distance away. Someone else was in that wood. And that someone was getting nearer.
He scanned the surrounding woods for any telltale sign of movement and after a few seconds he saw a figure walking
casually through the trees. Robert Delaware’s hands were thrust in the pockets of a new-looking waxed jacket and he seemed
unaware of Neil’s presence until he stepped into his path and waited for the moment of recognition.
When Delaware saw him he stopped, a slightly guilty look on his face as though Neil had caught him doing something he shouldn’t.
‘I’m going to have a look at the medieval ruins,’ Neil began. ‘To tell you the truth, that’s far more my thing than all this
ancient Egyptian stuff. I take it I’m on the right path for the old house?’
Robert Delaware gave Neil a smile that was probably meant to be friendly but came out as an insincere grimace. ‘It’s not far.
You pass a large clearing – take the path to your left then you’ll see the walls. They’re over six feet tall, some of them,
and the footprint of the house is quite clear. This must always have been regarded as a desirable place to build.’
‘I’m surprised Sir Albert Varley didn’t restore the old house instead of building that monstrous place.’
‘It wouldn’t have been nearly grand enough for him. He was a self-made man and self-made men like the world to see the end
product, as it were. His son, Sir Frederick, might have seen things differently, of course.’
‘At least the castle was big enough to house his Egyptian collection.’
‘Yes. That was very important to Frederick. Almost an obsession, I’d say.’
‘I’ve heard that people working in that particular field can get a little bit obsessive,’ said Neil lightly.
‘I think it’s true of most historians and archaeologists,’ Delaware replied with a frown. ‘Sometimes the past becomes more
real than the present, doesn’t it?’
Suddenly Neil remembered something. ‘Didn’t Frederick’s son John hang himself somewhere in this wood?’
Delaware’s face grew pale, as though the blood had drained from his cheeks. Perhaps he had become so caught up in researching
Sir Frederick Varley’s life that the source of his subject’s grief actually caused him pain.
‘Yes,’ he said after a few moments. ‘I’ll show you where it happened. It’s just down here.’ He began to stride ahead and Neil
felt he had no choice but to follow.
The track was muddy in places and Neil could see that the bottoms of Delaware’s trousers had become wet and stained. He followed
him through the trees until they reached a large clearing where a flock of crows in the surrounding trees cried out raucous
warnings of their arrival. Delaware stopped in the centre of the clearing and pointed to an ancient oak tree with gnarled
and crooked branches that reached into the open space like predatory arms, beckoning.
‘He took a rope he found in one of the outhouses and slung it over there.’ He pointed to a thick, twisted branch about eight
feet off the ground; high enough to hang a man. ‘He tied a noose then climbed onto one of the lower branches. Then once he’d
put the noose around his neck he launched himself off. It must have taken him a while to die.’ He stared at the tree as though
lost in another time, another world. ‘On a day like this you can just imagine it, can’t you? The sudden crash and the crows
rising up in a cackling black cloud. Then the rhythmic creaking of the branch as the body swung to and fro.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Neil said, suddenly anxious to bring the man back to reality. ‘Which way is it back to the path?’ With
all the talk of hanging, he’d lost his bearings amongst the trees.
Delaware pointed to the right of the oak. ‘If you carry on down there you’ll find the old house. It’s not far, only a couple
of hundred yards.’
As Neil watched Delaware disappear through the trees he realised that he should have taken the opportunity to ask again about
the murders John was supposed to have committed. However, the encounter with Delaware had disturbed him and he hadn’t been
anxious to prolong it. But there’d be other times – other opportunities. There was unfinished business that he still had to
face.
It was all in Hungate’s mind, of course. I realised that he had seen the life-sized statues of Anubis in Sir Frederick’s collection
and therefore it was hardly surprising that, when in his cups, he imagined that the jackal-headed god stalked the corridors
and grounds of the castle looking for souls to claim. I myself rather liked the god with his jackal head and his lithe human
form. He cared for the dead, preparing their earthly bodies for the afterlife. In my mind Anubis did no harm.
After a while I forgot all about Hungate’s foolishness, for the care and education of the children occupied most of my time.
That winter of 1901 was a peaceful time, although the weather on this fertile fringe of Dartmoor was harsh as it always is
in winter. The year up to then had been eventful: the old Queen had died in January, although our new King Edward would remain
uncrowned till August the following year. But these were events of national note and history would never record how I myself
had moved into a new world, a world I was finding most congenial, despite my lowly social standing.
However in the spring my new and satisfying life was to change. In
March Sir Frederick’s elder son, John, came home from Bristol. He was a slender, tall young man with very black hair and
brown eyes. I picked up from kitchen gossip that he longed to join the army but injuries incurred in childhood had left him
with a severe limp and his country had no place for an officer with such a disability. Yet although he walked with a stick
he still possessed the strength of any healthy young man. Strange, I thought, that the British Army should reject a man strong
enough, and willing enough, to kill.