The Marriage Hearse (32 page)

‘You were marvellous, darling,’ Gerry Heffernan said with mock theatricality as Rachel entered the office on Monday morning.

Rachel giggled and picked up the phone. She had a call to make.

‘You enjoyed it then?’ she asked before she dialled the number.

‘Great.’

‘And … er … Mrs …’

‘Joyce. Aye. She loved it. All that blood and … Said it made a change from weddings.’

Rachel laughed. ‘Did … er … Pam have a good evening … and your sister?’

Wesley looked up from his paperwork. ‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘I was just wondering … have you a copy of the script here?’

‘Sure.’ She produced a script from her desk drawer and took it over to Wesley’s desk. ‘Any particular reason?’

‘Just curious.’

Rachel shrugged and returned to the phone. It was about time she contacted the Novavita Clinic again. There was a question
she wanted to ask.

Annabel had enjoyed the play but in some ways she had thought it rather like a pantomime. Sylvius, his brother Antonio and
the Duke’s steward, Roderigo, had been villains as dark as any wicked stepmother whereas Paolo and Clara had been the blameless
prince and his Snow White. Only this performance had had no happy ending. The good didn’t end happily and the bad unhappily.
Rather the tidal wave of evil had engulfed the unsuspecting innocents and the villains alike, culminating in an orgy of bloodshed.
Margaret Lightfoot had insisted politely that she had enjoyed it. But at the end she had needed a stiff drink. Perhaps the
thought that the play’s creator had actually lived in her home, had ate, slept, thought and possibly murdered in the rooms
she regarded as her own, had disturbed her.

Everyone, apart from a few unimportant bit players, had ended up slaughtered on the stage in the most terrible ways. And as
for the plot. Even in her wildest imaginings, Annabel could never have thought up such things. Ralph Strong had had a wicked
imagination. But then he was a murderer. The bloody play had been created by a man with Clara Merison’s blood on his hands.

As Annabel searched the catalogues for early seventeenth-century wills at last she found what she’d been looking for. The
last will and testament of Bartholomew Strong, father of Ralph. If anything was going to tell her about relationships in the
Strong family, this was it.

When the document was produced she read through it, making an expert mental translation of the archaic language.

And when she had finished, she called Neil. This was something he’d want to know.

‘We’ve talked to your son, James, and your daughter, Julia,’ said Wesley as he sat down on the Crestons’ sofa. ‘We’d like
you to corroborate their story.’

Rowena Creston looked nervous. ‘Of course. Anything I can do. But I thought you’d arrested Kirsten’s ex-boyfriend …’

‘We’re just completing our enquiries, love,’ Gerry Heffernan chipped in quickly. ‘Tying up a few loose ends. You know how
it is.’ He treated Rowena to a wide grin. ‘Nothing to worry about. You were telling us exactly what happened on the morning
of Kirsten’s death. We need to know everyone’s exact movements.’

Rowena picked up a cushion and held it on her knee, twisting a tassel in the fingers of her right hand. ‘Everyone was here.
Then James went out. I told him not to be long because he had to get changed. He was out about half an hour. He didn’t say
where he’d been.’ She hesitated. ‘We were all busy getting ready. Then we found that one of the cravats was missing so Julia
had to rush to the shop in Tradmouth. She was out a long time. Parking’s a nightmare in the holiday season. I was worried
she wouldn’t make it back in time. But she did. We went to the church after that. Left Peter and James here to make their
own way.’

‘Which car did Julia take?’

Rowena looked puzzled. ‘Her own, of course.’

‘What colour is her car?’

‘Red. Why?’

‘Did anyone else go out?’

The woman frowned. Somehow she seemed older now than when they had first met her. More weary. ‘I don’t think so. My husband
popped out for some petrol. I mentioned that before, didn’t I? He wasn’t long.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Oh, I can’t remember. We were all so busy. Just after James got back, I think. Yes, that’s right.’

‘Do you mind if I have another look at the receipt?’

‘Of course. I’ll just get it. We keep all the petrol receipts together so it won’t be hard to find.’

‘Thank you.’ They might as well eliminate every possibility while they were there. Rowena left the room and returned half
a minute later. He examined the receipt from the BP petrol station in Balwell on the Tradmouth road. Fifteen litres of petrol
had been
swallowed by Jeff Creston’s silver Jaguar at eleven fifty precisely. A last-minute top up, just to make sure.

‘Did James go out again?’

‘No,’ Rowena said. Too quickly.

Wesley didn’t believe a word of it. Mothers have been known to lie for sons.

Rachel stared at the lists in her hand, comparing dates. It just didn’t make sense. The Novavita Clinic must have got it wrong.
Or perhaps it was just a case of plain, old-fashioned incompetence.

Ten minutes later Wesley arrived back in the office, having just been to visit the Crestons. She jumped up as soon as she
saw him. Perhaps he’d want to go with her. She hoped he would anyway.

She was going to Neston to visit Georgina. There was something she needed to know. And it wasn’t what the future had in store
for her. Sometimes it’s best to remain in ignorance.

ACT 3 SCENE 5

DUKE Oh Lord, this is not so. It cannot be. My very soul cries out with grief at such deep evil.

(enter Duchess)

DUCHESS How now, good husband. Why dost thou pray on bended knee at this strange hour?

DUKE I have this day learned of such things that would make heaven weep. To halt great sin, myself must sin apace. Wife, where
is our son?

James Creston was too upset to drive. His time spent in the police cells had shaken him, he told his sister. He had rung her
at work to ask if she would give him a lift back to the flat he shared in Neston with his boyfriend, Baz. Julia had accepted
her burden. It seemed that she had been looking after her two brothers from the time she could walk. Even Peter, who was two
years older than her, had needed looking after, being different from the other Crestons, perhaps more trusting, more naive.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked as she pulled up outside the flat.

‘No, I’m bloody not. I’ve been thrown into the cells and interrogated. And now I’ll just be waiting for the knock on the door
like in some bloody police state. They said they’ve not finished with me yet.’

Julia looked at him, suddenly anxious. ‘You haven’t told them anything?’

‘Trust me, Jules.’ He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek before getting out of the car.

* * *

Wesley couldn’t get the play out of his mind. That final bloodfest. The strangulation of Clara after which her killer had
proceeded to cut out her still-beating heart. Padua’s Fair Wife had ended up a bleeding corpse … a scene that had involved
the copious use of stage blood. Then came the other murders: the plotters, Sylvius and Antonio, had received their just deserts,
being first stabbed and then having their eyes gouged out; Paolo, the hapless bridegroom, was then skewered in a sword fight
just before the suicides of Juliana and the Duke, by poison and hanging respectively. He suspected it had all been too much
for Pam, who had seemed unusually quiet all evening. She hadn’t even chatted to Neil, rather she had just wanted a quiet drink
somewhere on their own.

‘Recovered from your night of theatrical fame?’ he asked Rachel, making conversation.

‘Just about. Until the next performance on Friday.’

‘I enjoyed it.’

‘Not squeamish then?’

Wesley smiled. ‘In this job? Did you know that Neil reckons Ralph Strong, the playwright, killed his girlfriend. Strangled
her and buried her in the field at Cudleigh Farm.’

‘I wondered what had happened about that skeleton. So he found out who it was.’

‘He thinks her name was Clara Merison.’

‘Clara. Like in the play. Pity we didn’t know about this before. We could have put it in the programme notes.’ She tilted
her head to one side. ‘I hope he didn’t cut out her heart like in the play. They didn’t find any evidence of …?’

‘I don’t think Colin Bowman found any sign of anything like that,’ Wesley answered. This was something he didn’t really want
to think about. And it was distracting him from the matter in hand. ‘You said you were going to see Georgina Williams. Any
joy?’

‘When I rang her she said she’d be with clients till twelve thirty. I said I’d arrive about one. Do you fancy coming with
me?’ She could feel her cheeks burning. ‘We could have lunch somewhere if you like.’

Wesley hesitated. ‘I suppose we could pick up a sandwich.’

He tried to ignore the disappointment on Rachel’s face.
Perhaps he was being too cautious. After all, what’s a cosy lunch between friends. And he liked to think of Rachel as a friend.
It was the possibility of her becoming something more that worried him. ‘Or we could have a pub lunch if we’re not pushed
for time.’

He watched a coy smile spread across her lips. ‘Shall we go now? Give ourselves plenty of time? The traffic’s terrible. Tourists.’

After telling Gerry Heffernan where they were going, Wesley allowed himself to be led out of the office.

Rachel could have started a new career as a clairvoyant, Wesley joked as they sat in standing traffic on the road into Neston.
She had been spot on about the traffic. And their lateness ruled out the possibility of a pub lunch. Instead, they grabbed
a sandwich from the supermarket opposite Neston Police Station.

When they arrived, Georgina Williams greeted them with a businesslike handshake. Wesley noticed that today she was wearing
something more in keeping with her occupation: a long floaty skirt and a black cheesecloth smock. She led them into her drawing
room and invited them to sit.

Wesley spoke first. ‘Did you realise Kirsten Harbourn was marrying the son of a former colleague of yours … Dr Jeffrey Creston?’

Georgina nodded. ‘Yes. I worked with Jeff Creston at the clinic and thought very highly of him. I didn’t want him dragged
into all this any more than he has been already. It wouldn’t be fair.’

Wesley shifted forward to the edge of his seat. The gleaming crystal ball on the table caught his eye. He felt he could do
with one himself to unravel this case. ‘Tell us about Dr Creston. What kind of man is he?’

‘I’ve never met a patient who didn’t adore him or a colleague who didn’t respect him. And he was never one of those consultants
who’d lord it over junior members of staff. And he was like a father to all those students who used to volunteer to be sperm
donors. He used to call them his boys and he never used to get annoyed even when they didn’t turn up.’

‘I see.’

‘Dr Creston was a wonderful doctor … always friendly and approachable. I told Kirsten that if his son was anything like him,
she was a very lucky girl.’

‘But sometimes children can turn out to be very different from their parents,’ Wesley observed, a faraway look in his eyes.

‘I suppose you’re right. But Kirsten didn’t have a bad word to say about Peter Creston.’

‘What about his brother and sister?’

Georgina frowned. ‘I don’t think she liked them much. Obviously took after their mother … not that I really know Mrs Creston
… and I certainly haven’t anything against her.’

Wesley had to smile to himself. As in all the best hospital dramas, it was clear Sister Williams had been a little in love
with the handsome, caring Dr Creston, although her affection was unlikely to have been reciprocated.

But Rachel was becoming impatient with this eulogy to the saintly doctor. She decided to come straight to the point. ‘The
letters NA beside a donor’s name on a certain date … what does that mean exactly?’

‘Did not attend. It happened from time to time if something cropped up … especially with the students. It was rather a nuisance
because we couldn’t freeze sperm in those days so the donation had to be made on the spot, as it were. So if a woman came
in and the donor didn’t turn up …’

‘Disappointment all round. Would you try to get another donor to come in?’

‘Yes. If someone fitted the bill and they were available. But it wasn’t always possible. We tried to match the donor’s appearance
as closely as possible with the husband’s. A lot of thought went into it.’

‘And it would all go down in the records?’

‘It should do. Unless there was a glitch in the system. Nobody’s perfect.’

‘According to the records, Kirsten Harbourn’s mother was impregnated with sperm from donor 756 on the 5th of May, as a result
of which she became pregnant. But according to another list that particular donor didn’t attend on that day. Does that mean
he couldn’t have been Kirsten’s father?’ Rachel tilted her head enquiringly.

Georgina looked confused. ‘Possibly.’

‘So another donor might have been used? I see from the records that a man called John Quigley used to work at the clinic.’

‘Oh yes, I remember him,’ she said, her words heavy with meaning. ‘He was an odd man. Used to fancy himself as some sort of
James Bond figure. Used to tell tall stories about how he’d foiled a bank robbery and how he’d uncovered a major fraud at
the last place he worked. I didn’t believe a word of it. But I think he did.’

‘He was on your list of donors.’

‘Oh yes. He’d have liked that. Passing on the heroic genes,’ she said with a hint of bitterness.

‘Any chance he could have … er …’ Wesley didn’t know quite how to put it. ‘Er … obliged if Mrs Harbourn’s donor hadn’t turned
up?’

Georgina shrugged her large shoulders. ‘It’s perfectly possible. He’d have been on the premises.’

Wesley caught Rachel’s eye and stood up. There was only one way of finding out. It was time to pay the Quigleys another visit.

Annabel stood at the edge of Neil’s trench and read out loud, clearly and slowly, as she’d been taught to do at boarding school.
‘I Bartholomew Strong, being sick in body but of good mind and perfect memory, do ordain and make this my last will and testament.
First I commend my soul into the hands of Almighty God my Maker trusting through the merit of Christ His son to have my sins
pardoned and my soul saved. And my body I commit to be buried in the church of Upper Cudleigh beside the body of my wife.’

She looked up. ‘He then goes on to leave his possessions to his surviving son, Bartholomew. There’s a generous legacy for
the church and he orders money to be given to the poor of Upper Cudleigh but that’s about it. Until you get to the interesting
bit. Do you want me to go on?’

Neil knew she was teasing him. He took a deep breath and
nodded, scraping a patch of bare soil absentmindedly with his trowel.

‘And to my neighbour Samuel Merison I leave my five best cattle as recompense for the great wrong done to his daughter, Clara.
And I pray for his pardon and the forgiveness of Almighty God.’

Neil stopped scraping and looked up. ‘He felt bad about what his son had done.’

Annabel shrugged. ‘Does that make sense, do you think? He asks forgiveness for himself, not his son.’

‘Ralph Strong was dead by then … killed in a tavern brawl. Perhaps he helped Ralph cover the matter up. Perhaps he helped
him bury Clara.’

‘Perhaps.’ Annabel didn’t look convinced. ‘Do archaeologists eat lunch?’

‘When we can afford to.’

‘OK then. Let’s try the café at the hall … my treat. And you can read over the rest of Bartholomew’s will while we eat.’

Neil didn’t need asking twice.

Wesley thought that Rachel was uncharacteristically quiet as she drove to Morbay. He tried to make conversation, asking her
how she was looking forward to the next performance of
The Fair Wife of Padua
, but she answered in monosyllables. Something was on her mind. And he wondered if they were thinking the same thing.

The Quigleys weren’t expecting them. Wesley had thought an element of surprise might be appropriate in the circumstances.

To their relief, John Quigley was alone in the office. His mother was out on an assignment. An unfaithful wife, he explained
as he invited them to sit. The husband wanted evidence of where, when and with whom. Quigley looked completely relaxed. Either
he was innocent or he was good at dissembling. Wesley wasn’t quite sure which.

‘DCI Heffernan sends his apologies for not returning your calls,’ said Wesley smoothly. ‘I’m afraid he’s been rather busy.’
He
watched Quigley’s face, wondering if his interest in the progress of the investigation was prompted by something other than
professional curiosity.

‘We’d like to ask you some more questions about the murder of Kirsten Harbourn.’

‘Fire away,’ Quigley said cheerfully as he leaned back in his chair.

‘Where were you between eleven and twelve thirty on the day she was murdered?’

Quigley looked uneasy. ‘Er … I was at home.’

‘Any witnesses?’

He hesitated. ‘No, actually. Mother was away for the weekend and …’

‘You used to work at the Novavita Clinic in Exeter.’

Quigley looked rather relieved about the sudden change of subject. ‘That’s right. I was an accountant.’

‘And you were a sperm donor.’

Quigley’s cheeks reddened. ‘Well, I saw the work they did. They were always needing healthy donors and …’ He spoke too quickly,
as though he was trying to convince them of something.

‘Would you say that some of the students who donated were a little unreliable?’

Quigley swallowed. ‘What are you getting at?’

‘Sometimes other donors had to help out if one didn’t turn up for some reason. People like you who were on the premises.’

‘It happened. Only once in a blue moon but it happened.’

‘Could you have been Kirsten Harbourn’s father?’

The colour drained from Quigley’s cheeks. He stood up. ‘No. I … I don’t know.’

Wesley heard the distress in the man’s voice, saw the pain on his face.

‘Just one more question, Mr Quigley …’

As John Quigley sank into the chair and put his head in his hands, Wesley asked his final question.

Wesley was studying his notebook when Trish Walton passed his desk.

‘Trish, fancy a bit of fresh air?’

Trish looked wary. ‘How do you mean?’

‘The BP petrol station in Balwell. Go and see if they’ve kept any CCTV footage from the day of Kirsten Harbourn’s murder,
will you? They’ll probably have recorded over it by now but it’s worth a try.’

‘Why?’ Trish didn’t usually question her superiors but this time she was curious.

‘Just checking something.’

He gave her an enigmatic smile and somehow she knew she wouldn’t get a straight answer. After he’d handed her a sheet of papers
bearing the details of the receipt, she scurried out of the office, an eager expression on her face. Even a trip to a petrol
station was better than paperwork.

When she had gone, Wesley wandered into Gerry Heffernan’s office. The chief inspector looked up from his desk. ‘I’ve just
had a report from the lab. Those red fibres on Kirsten’s neck match the sample Rach took from the cravat at the hire shop.’

Wesley nodded slowly. ‘That seems to put Stuart Richter in the clear once and for all.’

Heffernan sighed. ‘I don’t know about you, Wes, but I could do with a drink.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Tradmouth Arms. Nobody’ll
find us there amongst the tourists.’