Cursed Inheritance (12 page)

They returned to Tradmouth and as Wesley parked in the police station car park he glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was six o’clock but the day wasn’t over yet. Wesley yawned. It was only that morning that he was having breakfast with his parents but it seemed like weeks ago.

‘Keeping you awake, are we, WesT It was the first time Gerry Heffernan had spoken since they had left Potwoolstan Hall.

Wesley didn’t answer. As they walked up the stairs to the CID office on the first floor, his legs felt heavy. Hoping that a cup of coffee would wake him up, he got one from the machine before joining the chief inspector in his office.

He noticed that Rachel Tracey was sitting at her desk. He stopped and rested the plastic cup of scalding coffee on a filing cabinet before it burned his fingers.

Rachellooked up at him. ‘Kirsty Evans has been asking for you.’

‘You mean she’s got something to tell me?’

Rachel smiled and shook her head. ‘Don’t think so. She kept saying how nice you were. How you understood what she was going through. I think that if you’re not careful the grieving widow is going to start clinging to you.’

He said a soft ‘Oh dear’ and retreated into Heffernan’s office with his coffee. Maybe Rachel was exaggerating. Or maybe Kirsty had misinterpreted his natural sympathy. But whatever the truth was, he was glad she’d be returning to London shortly.

He closed the door of Heffernan’ s office behind him and slumped down in the worn office chair.

‘You look knackered, , was the closest Gerry Heffernan got to sympathy. ‘I’d get off home soon if! were you.’ ,

The mention of home prompted him to look at his watch. It was half past six. He had promised Pam that he’d phone her from London but he’d forgotten. And he’d vowed to be

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home at a reasonable time. Another broken promise.

‘So what have we got so far?’ he said, trying to take his mind off matters domestic.

‘Our victim was a freelance writer from London and he was writing a book about some crime, presumably one with a Devon connection. According to his wife he was down here doing research. He has a lobster dinner then goes for a walk with his murderer in the grounds of Potwoolstan Hall and gets a knife in his ribs.’ Heffernan thought for a moment. ‘Any chance he could have eaten at the Hall? With Jeremy Elsham and the lovely Pandora perhaps? Then a little after dinner stroll by the river and … ‘

‘1 thought of that. Apparently Jeremy and Pandora always eat with the guests. And the food’s strictly vegetarian.’

‘And lobster hardly counts as vegetarian. Aren’t they boiled alive?’

Wesley nodded.

‘So have we any idea what Evans was writing his book about?’

‘He was killed in the grounds of Potwoolstan Hall. Could he have been investigating those murders?’

‘Hardly. It was an open and shut case. The housekeeper went crazy. No mystery there.’

Wesley frowned. ‘I’ve got his files in my car boot but 1 haven’t had a chance to look through them yet.’

Heffernan raised his eyebrows, leaning back iti his chair. It gave a creak of complaint and looked as though it was about to collapse under his weight. ‘And his wife didn’t know what he was up to?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘She says he never took his work home. Unlike some police officers. His hotel room was searched, which suggests someone was after something he had. Maybe new evidence in an old murder case he was proposing to write about.’

‘A local case?’

‘Not necessarily. He might have come down here to see

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someone involved in a crime that happened in a different part of the country. And that someone took exception to his questions. ‘

‘But did his killer fmd what they were looking for?’ Heffeman picked up a report on his desk and began to read it. ‘Report’s come back - no fingerprints found in Evans’s hotel room that match any of our records. Dead end.’ He threw the report down again.

Wesley looked at his watch. He couldn’t put if off any longer. It was time to go home.

Anthony Jameston didn’t know why he’d decided to use the name Charles Dodgson but it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

He sat on his bed and looked out of the window at the view across the river, wishing the door would lock, wishing for privacy. Gwen Madeley had misled him when she’d said the place was filled with healing energy. It was a place full of hostility and pretence: it seeped from the walls.

He should never have come to Potwoolstan Hall. He had chosen it as his bolt hole because Evans had made him curious, anxious to see the place his wife would never talk about. He didn’t know what he had expected to fmd there. Perhaps some answer to why he had never really been able to get close to Arbel.

He buried his head in his hands. Parliament was in recess and he had booked a fortnight’s stay at the Hall. But he had been there six days already and he was still no nearer understanding the truth.

The police were asking questions about Evans. But how could he tell them about his dealings with the dead man?

Maybe it would be better to say nothing. To keep silent.

Wesley pushed the front door open and called out. He had seen Della’s car parked in the drive. That was all he needed; a visit from a thoughtless, feckless mother-in-law. After the day he’d just had all he wanted was peace and a

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quiet night by the television. In fact that was exactly what he wanted after most days.

A cry of ‘Here he is at last. I bet he’s got another woman he’s not telling you about,’ followed by a high-pitched giggle, came from the the living room. Della had had a glass or three of wine again.

Pam emerged from the living room. ‘I thought you said you wouldn’t be late.’ ˇ

Wesley stepped forward and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Sorry. How are the kids?’

‘In bed. Don’t disturb them,’ she replied, watching his face. ‘My mum’s here.’

‘So I heard. How much has she had to drink?’

Pam turned away, annoyed. ‘You make it sound as if she’s an alcoholic.’

Wesley thought he’d better change the subject. ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’

‘Apart from sharing a bottle of wine with my drunken mother, you mean?’ Her lips twitched upwards in a smile. ‘Neil’s sent an email. I printed it out for you. Hang on.’ She rushed into the dining room and came out again holding a sheet of paper. He had waited in the hall. He wasn’t in the mood to face Della right now.

His dinner awaited him in the kitchen, cold and congealing. He looked at it. Cauliflower covered with cheese sauce that had solidified into unappetising lumps. But he was hungry and it was better than nothing so he placed the plate in the microwave. It was his own fault for being late.

He sat down at the kitchen table and began to eat, trying to ignore Della’s irritating giggles from the adjoining room. When he had finished he picked up NeH’s email and started to read. Somehow he hadn’t expected him to get in touch so soon.

As he read, he felt envious. While he had been struggling through the London traffic and fighting losing battles against criminals who seemed to be getting smarter and more vicious by the day, Neil had been uncovering

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America’s early history. And when Neil came across a skeleton that had. met its end under suspicious circumstances, nobody expected him to catch the culprit who, in any case, would have died centuries ago. Neil had no hostile witnesses to deal with; no lawyers doing their best to convince juries of the blameless innocence of sadistic villains and - more often than not - succeeding; no criticism by public and politicians; no risk of serious injury or even death. There were times when Wesley askedˇ himself why he hadn’t stuck to archaeology.

He put his dirty plate in the dishwater, longing to put his feet up and drink a couple of glasses of wine in front of an undemanding TV programme. But Della was there, and she’d probably stay for the rest of the evening, making him feel like an intruder in his own home.

He preferred to be exiled to the peace of the dining room with a good book than to suffer Della when she started to spout the half.:.baked anti-establishment and anti-police rehetoric she usually came out with when she’d had a few drinks. And besides he had just remembered that Patrick Evans’s files were still in the boot of his car.

After tidying up a little in the kitchen to appease Pam, he opened the front door and sneaked out to the car. Once back in the dining room he took the files from their boxes and began to arrange them neatly on the table. He always felt more able to deal with things when they were tidy and organised. He picked up the first file, which was full of notes and cuttings. They concerned a case back in the 1970s. A notorious East End gangster called Toothless Terry who had links with the Flying Squad. Wesley scanned the file and put it to one side. He had heard of similar cases before: at one time many professional villains liked to have tame policemen in their pockets.

The next file concerned a case of arson in an East End factory. Several bodies had been found, probably those of illegal immigrants who were forced to work there for a pittance. Again it seemed that there was an underworld

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connection. But no mention of Devon as yet.

He opened another file, then another. Most of the crimes that Evans had investigated seemed to have taken place in London. Eventually, he found a case of a woman up in Glasgow who had been acquitted of the murder of her husband’s mistress but still nothing connected with Devon or the south west.

Patrick Evans specialised in reviewing old cases with fresh eyes and seeking out evidence that had either been ignored or unavailable at the time. It occurred to Wesley that he would have made a good policeman if he hadn’t chosen to be a journalist and author. And at least the police force would have given him a regular income every month.

Wesley had emptied the first box and found no mention of any Devon connection, ancient or modern. He replaced everything neatly before emptying the second box and laying the files out on the table in an orderly manner. When he examined them he found more of the same. There were the murders of several prostitutes in Cardiff, possibly linked to a local dignitary, and a kidnapping in Leeds. At least things were moving further afield.

The fourth file Wesley picked up was much slimmer than the others. In fact, when he opened it up he found that it was completely empty. Wesley stared at it for a moment before turning it over to look at the name on the front.

His heart began to beat faster and he was hardly aware of Della’ s irritating laughter drifting in from the living room. This file had been emptied: Evans had probably brought its contents to Devon with him. All his instincts told him that this was what whoever had searched Evans’s hotel room had been after.

And the name printed on the front in neat black letters was ‘Potwoolstan Hall’.

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This river we have discovered ebbs and flows a hundred and threescore miles where ships of great burden may harbour in safety. Wheresoever we land upon this river we see the goodliest woods of beech, oak, cedar, cypress, walnut, sassafras and vines. There is an abundance of food and we dine most commonly onfish, turtles, raccoons, birds and oysters.

The Chief of the Savages sent more men with gifts of tobacco and fruits. Master Joshua Morton set up a target against a tree and willed one of the savages to shoot. The savage took from his back an arrow and drew it strongly in his bow and shot the target a foot through and yet a pistol could not pierce it. Then, seeing the force of this bow, Master Morton set him up a steel target which burst the next arrow all to pieces. The savage flew into a great rage and Master Morton made to fire his pistol at him. Yet I stopped him, fearing he would anger the natives who would come to do us harm.

It is Penelope’s habit to gather fruits in the woods in the mornings so I sought her out. I fear her husband greatly. He is a choleric man with murder in his heart, yet Penelope doth deceive well and plays the meek and dutiful wife. It may be that I should have nothing to do with her. But I fear she hath bewitched me.

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Set down by Master Edmund Selbiwood, Gentleman,

on the twelfth day of August 1605 at Annetown,

Virginia. .

Neil Watson was disappointed to [md that there was no

email from Pam. But it was early days, and besides, she

probably wouldn’t have much to say. Life would be carrying on as normal back in Tradmouth. Wesley working long

hours while Pam was stuck with the kids was hardly news.

He squatted in the trench and gazed up at the tall cedar

trees outlined against the blue sky. The early settlers must

have thought this place was paradise. But this paradise had to

be defended and Professor Keller’s team had found what . remained of their defences against the natives - and presumably that old enemy of the English at that time, Spain.

Neil was impressed by what he had seen of Virginia so

far; the green, wooded landscape, the kind weather and the

pretty clapboard houses, white and well kept with manicured gardens enclosed by neat picket fences. It seemed

like a good place. But it hadn’t been good for the two men

with musket balls lodged in their skulls who had died there

hundreds of years ago. He wondered what had led to their

deaths. An accident? A quarrel? He’d probably never know

but it was intriguing all the same.

The favourite topic of conversation of his new flatmate,

Chuck, was still how his favourite baseball team was doing.

The analysis of each game the Yankees had played and the

performance of each player was beginning to get on Neil’s

nerves. He had never really been one for team sports and

the unfamiliarity of the game’s rules and characters seemed

to make matters worse. He’d known a lot of men back

home in England who had a similar obsession with football,