The Marriage Hearse (19 page)

Gerry Heffernan walked in and cleared his throat.

She looked up and smiled. ‘I didn’t expect you to come yourself, Chief Inspector. I thought you’d send one of your minions.’

Heffernan shuffled his feet awkwardly. ‘Well I was round this way so … Er … it’s nice to see you again, Joyce. I really enjoyed
last Saturday and …’

‘Me too.’ She closed the file.

‘You said you had some information for me?’

‘Oh yes. Please … sit down. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll ask Lynne to make some tea. Or do you prefer coffee?’

‘Oh no, love. Tea’s fine. The cup that cheers, eh.’ He gave a nervous laugh.

After ordering the tea, Joyce produced a newspaper from beneath the files on her desk. ‘I saw this in the paper.’ She pushed
it towards him, pointing at the photofit of the mystery man. Mr Jones. ‘I recognise him … or at least I think I do. And the
description of the girl who was seen going to his room – I think I recognise her as well. Hang on.’

She stood, walked over to a large cupboard near the window and took out a file. ‘Entries in the marriage register for last
Saturday. Here.’ She passed him a sheet of paper. ‘This one.’ She leaned over him and pointed to a pair of names. He could
smell her perfume. Light and floral. Like the one his late wife, Kathy, used to wear.

He read. ‘Abdul Ahmed – Iraqi national; address in Morbay – to Françoise Decaux – EU national at the same address.’ After
a short pause while he took in the information, he turned to Joyce. ‘We know Françoise Decaux. Her name’s cropped up in one
of
our other investigations. She’s supposed to be studying English at a language college near here. This is the first we’ve
heard of her having a husband.’ He thought for a moment, pondering the implications. ‘She’s gone missing.’

‘Do you think she could have killed him?’

Heffernan sighed. ‘Well, it looks like she’s on the run and the spouse is usually the chief suspect in most murder investigations
until we know otherwise.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘They married here on Saturday?’

‘That’s right. It was a small wedding. Only two witnesses … girls. Friends of the bride’s I assumed.’

‘How did they seem? I mean, were they affectionate or …’

‘Oh yes. They did kiss. But she seemed nervous … almost frightened. I thought she might be scared of her family’s reaction.
Mind you, I could be wrong.’ Joyce looked uncertain.

Heffernan cleared his throat. ‘If you let me have the address this couple gave I’ll check it out.’

Joyce’s face suddenly clouded with concern. ‘You don’t think that girl could have killed him, do you? She looked such a sweet
little thing.’

Gerry Heffernan was just about to break the unpalatable news that, in his experience, sweet little things are capable of the
most appalling acts of violence when the tea finally arrived.

Françoise sat, slumped on the splintering floorboards staring at the door opposite, expecting it to open at any moment, aware
that her face was glowing with the sweat of fear.

It was hot and the air was still. She wanted a shower but there were no modern conveniences here, except a lavatory, stained
and seatless with a faulty flush. She feared that she smelled of stale sweat and for Françoise, normally so fastidious, this
thought was almost as distressing as the predicament she found herself in.

She thought of her parents, both teachers. Of her younger brother and sister back home in Moret who had envied her the adventure
of coming to a new country alone. They had no idea of this new world she inhabited but maybe that was a blessing. Shame was
as
distressing as filth. And Françoise’s shame blended with her fear as she stood up and walked the length of her prison.

Her mobile phone had been taken from her and it was no use screaming or banging on the door. She was quite alone. Nobody would
hear her. Or want to hear her.

As she sank down on the stained mattress that now served as her bed, her tears began to fall on to the ground where they mingled
with the thick layer of dust on the floorboards.

A
CT
2 S
CENE
1

A chamber in the Duke’s house
.

Clara is sewing
.

Enter Sylvius
.

S
YLVIUS
How goes it with you, lady?

C
LARA
I am well, good brother, I humbly thank you
.

S
YLVIUS
Why callest thou me brother?

C
LARA
I am thy brother, Paolo’s wife. Man and wife are one flesh. Therefore thou art my brother
.

S
YLVIUS
And if this brother desirest not to be a brother?

C
LARA
Thy meaning is obscure, good sir
.

S
YLVIUS
Then I shall be plain. For many a night I have had dreams
.

C
LARA
Dreams, sir?

S
YLVIUS
Aye dreams, lady. And of such rich passion they would make heaven blush for shame. I dream of thee and in these dreams
thou art in my bed
.

C
LARA
Sir, speak no more. It is not fitting. It is not proper
.

S
YLVIUS
Proper and fitting are words beyond my world. I want thee, sweetest Clara and wouldst take my brother’s place
.

C
LARA
I beg thee let me be. Take thy most wicked dreams and think upon thy sin. Lust for a brother’s wife is an unholy seed,
planted by Satan to corrupt thy soul and mine. Wilt thou take thy leave, sir, ere my husband comes hither?

S
YLVIUS
Though I’m rejected now, yet I shall try again. I will have thee, though the devil claims my soul
.

CLARA I hope for heaven and would rather die than fall to
shame. If thou speakest thus again, thy father shall know of it. (Exeunt)

S
YLVIUS
Though thou spurnest me now, lady, I shall have my way or be revenged hereafter
.

Little Peter Rabbit. Rachel Tracey couldn’t get the name out of her head as she knocked on the door of the Crestons’ house.
She hadn’t mentioned Mike Dellingpole’s derogatory nickname for Kirsten’s future husband to Wesley. Somehow it hadn’t seemed
appropriate.

‘You think we’ll be able to charge Richter?’ she asked, more for the sake of conversation than a burning desire to know.

Wesley shrugged. ‘Hopefully. It’s just a matter of getting a DNA match to make it stick.’

‘So what are we going to tell Peter Creston?’

‘The truth. Keep him up to date. If I was him, I’d want to know we’d made an arrest, wouldn’t you?’

Wesley was right. Ignorance isn’t always bliss. As she heard footsteps approaching the front door, she straightened her back
and assumed a professional expression.

It was Dr Jeff Creston who opened the door and, without a word, he stood aside to let them in, appropriately solemn in his
dark suit and tie. ‘I’m just on my way to the hospital,’ he explained. ‘But my wife’s at home. And Peter, of course. He’s
been too upset to return to work. It’s probably best if he takes things slowly.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Rachel, the soul of sympathy. ‘I know it’s a difficult time but we do need to have a word with him.
It won’t take long.’

Five minutes later they were sitting on the sofa facing Peter Creston. Rowena Creston had provided tea. She fussed around,
watching her son anxiously, regressed to the time when he had been young and had needed her. Perhaps, thought Wesley, she
liked to be needed again.

Rachel opened the questioning. ‘How are you?’ she asked, her eyes full of concern.

‘What is it they say? As well as can be expected. At least I’m managing to sleep. My dad’s given me some tablets.’ He put
his
head in his hands. ‘You know, it doesn’t seem real. I keep thinking I’ll wake up and find I’ve dreamed it all. I mean, who’d
want to hurt Kirsten? It must have been some lunatic.’ He looked up accusingly. ‘Why aren’t you out there catching him before
he does it to someone else?’

‘As a matter of fact we have made an arrest,’ said Rachel. ‘The man who was making a nuisance of himself to Kirsten. Stuart
Richter. I believe your friends warned him off at one point.’

‘He claims they beat him up,’ Wesley added.

For the first time Peter Creston’s lips twitched upwards in a bitter smile. ‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration. I admit they
roughed him up a bit but there seemed no other way of getting the message across.’

‘It didn’t work,’ said Wesley. ‘He hired a private detective.’

‘So I heard. He was mad. Crazy. I was afraid he might try and do something to sabotage the wedding … stand up when the vicar
asked if anyone had any objection, that sort of thing. If I’d thought for one moment that he might harm Kirsten …’

Wesley could see that tears were welling up in the young man’s eyes. He didn’t feel inclined to prolong his suffering but
sometimes these things couldn’t be avoided. ‘We’ve been talking to a few people who knew Kirsten. Would you say she’d been
faithful to you since your engagement?’

Peter Creston looked up, his eyes wide with indignation. ‘If you’re implying that she …’

To Wesley’s relief, Rachel took over. ‘I know it’s an awful thing to say, Peter, but people have been telling us things about
Kirsten … not very nice things. It’s been suggested that you weren’t the only man in her life.’

‘That’s absolute rubbish.’ Peter Creston’s lips were set in a stubborn line. ‘I don’t know how anyone could lie about her
like that when she can’t defend herself.’

Wesley watched him, realising that there was no way he was going to believe the worst of his late beloved. Unless he was an
accomplished actor. Perhaps he himself had killed Kirsten because his illusions had been smashed. If he hadn’t had a castiron
alibi provided by his family, Wesley would have considered
this possibility. But, as it was, it looked as if he was letting his imagination run away with him.

‘So as far as you know, there was nobody else?’ Rachel continued, probing gently. ‘Not even a casual fling?’

‘Of course not.’ He looked affronted, as though Rachel had uttered a personal insult.

‘There’s been another development too,’ said Wesley. ‘Something that might have nothing to do with Kirsten’s death. I don’t
know whether you’ve heard that a man’s body was found in a guesthouse in Morbay. A man we’ve yet to identity.’

Peter looked at him suspiciously. ‘If you’re implying Kirsten had some sort of affair with …’

‘No, no. You misunderstand me. There’s no reason to believe that Kirsten ever met him. But there seems to be a connection
with the college where she worked. We think that one of the students there, a French girl called Françoise Decaux, might have
married the dead man. According to the records at Morbay Register Office, the man gave his name as Abdul Ahmed. Ring any bells?’

Peter Creston shook his head, puzzled. ‘I don’t know what this has to do with Kirsten.’

‘To be honest with you, Peter, nor do we at the moment. But it just seems strange that Kirsten’s murder hasn’t been the only
suspicious death to be connected with the college. And the girl in question, Françoise Decaux, has gone missing. Does the
name Simon Jephson mean anything to you? Wesley saw a flicker of recognition in Peter’s eyes but he said nothing. ‘He worked
with Kirsten and he appears to be missing too.’

‘Perhaps he’s gone off with this French girl.’

‘Perhaps. Stranger things have happened.’ He paused, watching Peter’s face. ‘Jephson has a conviction for sexual assault.
And, according to the staff at the college, he was friendly with Kirsten.’ Wesley hesitated before dropping his last bombshell.
‘And a man fitting his description was seen visiting your cottage when Kirsten was there alone.’

Peter looked up, shocked.

‘She told you about his visits?’

Peter squirmed in his seat. ‘She mentioned something.’

‘We’ve checked her phone records too. She made and received calls to Jephson’s number on a number of occasions.’

‘He was a colleague. She probably didn’t know about his … his past. She certainly never mentioned it to me.’ It seemed that
Peter Creston was determined to believe the best of his late fiancée.

‘So there’s nothing else you can tell us?’

‘As far as I’m concerned, Stuart Richter killed her when he realised he couldn’t have her. I’m glad you’ve got him. Just don’t
let some smart lawyer allow him to wriggle out of it, will you?’

Peter Creston stood up and Wesley sensed they were being dismissed. But they’d done what they’d come to do – brought the grieving
fiancé up to date. And, as he’d expected, Peter’s mind was made up: Stuart Richter – poor obsessed Stuart, Kirsten’s deluded
ex – was guilty and everything else they’d discovered about Kirsten’s life and work was irrelevant. And who was to say that
Peter wasn’t absolutely right?

As they reached the front door, Wesley turned, as though he’d forgotten something important. ‘According to our records of
Kirsten’s incoming calls, you rang her at the cottage shortly before her death … at around five past eleven. Is that right?’

Peter looked confused. ‘Did I? I thought it was earlier. I wanted to check something about the bridesmaids’ presents.’

‘Isn’t that considered rather unlucky, speaking to the bride before the wedding? In fact you rang her twice that morning.
Ten thirty-five and five past eleven.’

‘I really can’t remember. If you say I did, I must have done. I was in a bit of a panic. Big day.’ He turned his face away.

As they took their leave, Wesley thought the man was about to cry.

Margaret Lightfoot was rather pleased to see the archaeologist on her doorstep. She was eaten up with curiosity about the
bones in her lower meadow and, since she’d been told that the skeleton dated from centuries ago, she’d been entertaining her
patients with the story. A real-life murder mystery, involving ancient bones and buried treasure was just the type of thing
that sent a thrill down the arthritic spines of some of her elderly ladies and
they were awaiting the next instalment of the saga with greedy anticipation.

Neil Watson had come to enjoy his visits to Cudleigh Farm. In spite of coping with the demands of being a district nurse,
Margaret still seemed to manage to find the time for a bit of home baking. And she served a remarkably good cup of tea. He
stepped inside the farmhouse, his boots thudding on the ancient flagstone floor as he looked around, taking in the architecture.

‘So what’s the latest news?’ Margaret asked as she led the way into the kitchen.

‘It’s good,’ Neil replied as she put the kettle on the Aga. ‘The bones are almost definitely old and the pathologist who looked
at them says there’s a possibility she was strangled.’

‘Well, I didn’t think she’d died naturally. I mean, they didn’t go around burying people in fields in those days, did they?
From what I’ve heard they wanted to be buried in churchyards, in consecrated ground.’

Neil smiled. She’d been doing her homework.

‘I’ve always been interested in history.’ She began to butter a scone. ‘I’ve done some research on this farm, you know.’

This was exactly what Neil wanted to hear. ‘What did you find out?’

‘It’s mentioned in a few old documents … wills and that. My son went to Exeter and looked it up. Fifteen thirty something
was the earliest he found but I dare say it’s older than that. Someone told Brian that bits of the house might be medieval.’

‘You could be right. If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a look.’

‘Help yourself. Any news on the pendant?’

Neil produced a plastic box from his trouser pocket, the kind used by the museum to store delicate objects He opened it and
inside, wrapped in white acid-free paper, was the locket. He passed the box to Margaret who gazed down at it like a child
contemplating some miraculous Christmas present.

‘This is wonderful,’ she whispered. ‘I never realised it would be as beautiful as this. Can I touch it?’

‘Of course. Technically it’s yours. It was found on your land. If you open it up very carefully you’ll see there’s an inscription
inside.’ He fished a tatty scrap of paper from another pocket and read. ‘I pledge to thee, sweet maid, the best of love.’

‘That’s really beautiful.’ Margaret looked quite overwhelmed as she cradled the locket in her palm, letting the gold chain
dangle on to the kitchen table.

‘So who killed her? Was it a crime of passion?’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe the man who gave her the locket killed her … not after writing that for her. Perhaps
it was someone else.’

‘She was laid out properly which shows some reverence. She wasn’t just dumped in a hole to cover up a crime. I think it must
have been her lover … or someone else who cared about her.’

Margaret poured the tea, hot and strong. ‘We’re talking about them as if we know them. And we don’t. We know nothing about
them. We don’t even know the poor maid’s name.’

Neil took a sip then put the mug down again as the scalding liquid burned his lips. ‘I’m up for some detective work. My dig’s
going well and I’ve got some contacts in various libraries and archives.’

‘Friends in high places,’ Margaret chuckled.

‘Some of them work in basements.’

Margaret thrust a plate of fresh scones in his direction in a manner which suggested she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

‘So did your son find out who owned this farm in the sixteenth century?’

‘Oh yes. In the fifteen thirties it was a man called Strong. Bartholomew Strong.’

Neil bit into his scone and it crumbled in his mouth. At least they had a name. And Bartholomew Strong was as good a place
to start as any.

Julia Creston put the telephone down. The police had been round asking more questions and Peter was panicking again. But then
her brother had never been the strongest of men emotionally. And Kirsten had hardly improved the situation.

They’d picked up Kirsten’s crazy ex, which was a good thing. Perhaps now the Crestons would be left in peace.