Cursed Inheritance (17 page)

‘I’m not sure,’ he replied, watching her face.

She pointed at the painting of the two men. ‘I remember

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that. It used to be at the top of the stairs.’

Elsham swallowed, wondering what was coming next.

‘The thing is, when I was hypnotised I hoped I’d remember.’

Elsham shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. ‘Remember what?’

‘Who killed them. Since my regression it’s been coming back … like flashbacks.’

Elsham sat forward, his heart pounding. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘The murders. Here in this house.’

‘When we took over this place we had it cleansed of all hostile energy.’ He spoke smoothly, trying to hide the agitation he felt inside. He knew the history of the Hall: that was why he had managed to buy the place so cheaply. ‘Our other Beings have sensed nothing amiss and … ‘

Emma shook her head. ‘You don’t understand. 1 was living here. They said my mother killed them but she didn’t. 1 know
he didn’t.’

Elsham stared at her for a few moments in horror before his curiosity got the better of him. ‘Who did kill them then?’

Another shake of the head. ‘I can’t see his face yet.’ Her eyes started to fill with tears. ‘That’s why 1 came back here. 1 need to remember.’

Elsham’s hand crept towards the button that would summon Pandora. ‘I’m so sorry, Emma. If I’d known all this, 1 would have advised you not to come here. You obviously find the experience of returning to Potwoolstan Hall very distressing and I’m sure it would be best if you left us. For your own good. The kind of healing we offer here isn’t suitable for your particular case and … ‘

‘No.’ Emma was surprised at how firmly the word came out. ‘I want you to hypnotise me again. Just once more. Please.’ She hesitated. ‘A man’s been telephoning me, wanting to talk to me about what happened. 1 said no at first but now 1 want to see him. 1 have to prove my mother didn’t kill those people. Please. I’m booked in for five

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more days. I’m not going home.’

leremy Elsham assumed a fixed smile as he pressed the button that would summon his wife. Perhaps a complimentary massage would keep Emma Oldchester out of his hair for a few hours.

Wesley noticed that Steve Carstairs was looking rather pleased with himself. But then Steve was an easy man to please: a sexual conquest; a juicy snippet of information from one of his criminal contacts in a smoky Morbay bar; or a member of the ethnic minorities brought in for some petty offence. It was all the same to Steve.

It wasn’t until Rachel Tracey placed the newspaper on his desk that Wesley understood that day’s reason for Steve’s good mood. It was a red-topped tabloid paper - the Daily Galaxy - and the headline read ‘Police probe murder Hall link.’ There was a large photograph of Potwoolstan Hall underneath.

He began to read the article. According to the author, the police were working on the theory that there was a connection between the massacre at Potwoolstan Hall in 1985 and the murder of Patrick Evans. This might well be true. But it certainly wasn’t something that they wanted to be public knowledge just yet. Then Wesley glanced at the name of the article’s author and everything became clear.

‘Steve,’ he called across the office.

Steve looked up, resentful.

‘This Serena lones who wrote this article about the Evans case. Is it the same Serena lones who was staying at the Hall? Friend of yours, wasn’t she?’

Steve’s face went bright red. ‘I know her.’

Probably in the biblical sense, Wesley thought, although he didn’t say it. Steve’s education probably hadn’t included scriptural references.

Wesley turned his attention back to the article. Something had caught his eye.

‘Staying at the hall at the moment is Anthony lameston

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MP, a junior minister in the Home Office, whose wife, Arbel, lived there in 1985 and discovered the bodies of her family, murdered by their housekeeper, who had later committed suicide. Is it a coincidence that her husband, tipped as one to watch in the world of politics, chose to spend Parliament’s spring break at the scene of this tragedy, now reborn as an alternative healing centre?’

The question was left hanging. And it had achieved its objective of whetting Wesley’s curiosity.

‘Steve, what’s all this about Arbel Harford’s husband?’

Steve looked smug. ‘It’s that Charles Dodgson’s real name.’

‘And you didn’t think to share this with your colleagues?’

Steve’s face turned red. ‘I was going to. Serena must have found out the stuff about his wife.’

‘We could do with her here,’ Wesley muttered under his breath, annoyed with himself for not checking Charles Dodgson out more thoroughly himself, embarrassed that Serena J ones had succeeded in discovering something that he should have known from the start.

When he had studied the case files he had wondered what had become of Arbel, the eighteen-year-old who had made that terrible discovery that would scar most people for life. Now he knew. She was no doubt a very wealthy women in her own right: she would have inherited the lot.

Wesley couldn’t help wondering how Arbel had coped with the trauma of her family’s slaughter over the years. He would like to have known where she was now and if Patrick Evans had spoken to her. And whether she was aware that her husband was staying at the scene of her darkest hour.

He sat at his desk for half an hour feeling restless, his mind on Potwoolstan HalL Then he walked over to Rachel’s desk, earning himself a sly look from Steve Carstairs. But one glance told him that she was busy. She was sifting through statements and Wesley hardly liked to interrupt her.

He scanned the office and spotted DC Darren Wentworth talking to Trish Walton. As he had only recently transferred to CID from Uniform, it was about time he had a bit more

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experience of CID work. Wesley summoned him over and when he told him he was going to interview a possible witness in the Patrick Evans case, Darren’s eyes lit up. At least it was a change from paperwork.

Darren drove them out to Potwoolstan Hall - gaining yet more experience - or rather, giving Wesley a break. Wesley had telephoned the Hall to make certain Anthony Jameston - alias Charles Dodgson - was still there, and an irritated Jeremy Elsham had complained that there were reporters prowling the grounds. Word had got out about the Evans connection and it had the smell of a juicy story.

Wesley told Darren to put his foot down. As they drove, Wesley felt obliged to make conversation. ‘How are you liking CID?’

‘Very much, sir,’ Darren replied, rather stiffly.

‘Better than what you did before? What was it?’

‘Crime prevention … sir.’

‘Was it you who came to our house… told my wife to have window locks fitted?’

‘Don’t know, sir. Might have been.’

Wesley had run out of things to say. So he broached the more comfortable subject of work, of Patrick Evans’s connection with the Potwoolstan Hall case.

‘He might have been down here for a different reason,’ Wentworth said, in Wesley’s opinion unhelpfully.

Wesley frowned. ‘Well, his hotel room was searched so his killer must have been after something he had. He wrote about famous murder cases. And an empty file on the Potwoolstan Hall case was found amongst his papers.’

‘But if it was empty we can’t know for certain, can we, sir?’

Wesley didn’t answer. He felt mildly annoyed that Darren Wentworth, the newest recruit to Tradmouth CID was pouring cold water on his precious theories. Or perhaps he was merely voicing the doubts that were in the back of his own mind.

Wesley suddenly remembered something: something he

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hadn’t done that he had intended to do. A sin of omission. He hadn’t yet contacted Evans’s publishers. Perhaps they had a proposal or synopsis for the book he was working on. He cursed himself for being so inefficient.

They drove in silence until they swung into the gates of the Hall and saw a group of people by the gate. They were warmly dressed as if they were in for a long wait. Some of the bolder ones - a man with a weasel face and two young women, their hair dyed an identical shade of blond - ran alongside the car, knocking on the windows.

‘Ignore them,’ Wesley instructed. ‘Elsham told me when I rang him that all hell had broken loose since that piece appeared in the Daily Galaxy. The fuss’ll die down soon.’

‘You think it will?’ Wentworth sounded doubtful. Wesley began to regret his choice of companion. Wentworth wasn’t the most cheerful and encouraging of souls.

‘They’ll be after another story tomorrow with twice the scandal and three times the sex,’ Wesley said with a confidence he didn’t feel.

He instructed Wentworth to ignore the signs that said ‘No cars beyond this point’ and carry on to the Hall. But, as he parked, Wesleynoticed that there were yet more journalists hanging about, some with tape recorders, some with cameras. All with the keen expressions of hounds Oil the scent. They.gave nothing away as they ran the gauntlet of questions and snapping cameras and they were relieved when a young woman in a starched white dress opened the door and took a swift look at their identification before allowing them to slip inside.

‘Jeremy’s expecting you,’ she said with a slight lisp. She looked terrified.

The young woman seemed quite alarmed when Wesley told her they wanted to talk to Mr Dodgson. She led them to the conservatory and told them to wait.

They sat down on a pair of wicker chairs set around a low table, making sure there was a third chair for the man who was about to join them. Wesley made no attempt at

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conversation with his colleague. He was thinking about the coming interview and getting the facts straight in his mind. If a man uses a false name then it’s a fair assumption that he has something to hide.

It wasn’t long before the man who had been calling himself Charles Dodgson appeared in the doorway. Heˇ hesitated for a second then, like an actor assuming a role, he straightened his back and strode in, his hand outstretched.

‘This is really most embarrassing,’ he said as he shook Wesley’s hand firmly. ‘I suppose you know by now that Charles Dodgson’s not my real name.’ He took a business card from his pocket and handed it to Wesley. ‘I’m Anthony Jameston. I assure you I’m not in the habit of using a false name, but I thought that it would allow me more privacy under the circumstances. The last thing I expected when I came here for some peace and quiet was to become involved in a police enquiry. All these reporters … ‘

‘One of your fellow guests here was a journalist. She was investigating Mr Elsham’s rather unorthodox healing methods but once she realised there was a connection between this place and the recent murder … ‘

Anthony Jameston nodded, resigned. ‘Bad luck really.’

‘You lied to my officers about your identity when they talked to you about the recent theft.’ Wesley watched his face.

Jameston spread out his hands, a gesture of admission. ‘I’m sorry about that. I didn’t really know what to do for the best. I knew I hadn’t stolen anything so I saw no reason to complicate matters. You do understand, don’t you?’

Wesley gave him a businesslike smile and signalled him to sit. ‘I believe your wife was involved in the tragedy here back in 1985. The man who was killed in the grounds was called Patrick Evans: he was a freelance writer and we think he was proposing to write a book about the case. Have you ever had any contact with him?’

Jameston took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. ‘If

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those bastards from the press weren’t there I’d suggest that we took a stroll in the grounds. They don’t allow smoking in here. Or meat. Or alcohol. Bit of a hell hole really. All lentils and chanting.’ He smiled and Wesley, in spite of his initial suspicions, began to warm to the man.

Jameston walked over to the nearest window and opened it. Then he pulled out a gold lighter and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. ‘That’s better,’ he muttered. After a few moments he turned to Wesley. ‘I suppose I’d better come clean. I did meet Patrick Evans. He rang me and said he wanted to talk to me about a book he was writing. And you’re quite right; he was investigating what happened at this place.’

Wesley’s heart began to beat a little faster. ‘What can you tell me about him?’ He felt he knew very little about their murder victim’s professional life. Every little snippet of information and every impression helped to complete the jigsaw.

‘He seemed a pleasant enough chap. He specialised in raking over old murder cases, especially ones he thought might have involved a miscarriage of justice.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘But we all have to make a living, don’t we, Inspector? ‘

‘Why did he contact you? Why not ring your wife?’

Jameston thought for a moment. ‘I rather liked him for that actually. You see it was my wife’s family who died here. And she found the bodies. She was only eighteen at the time and she’s never talked about it in all the time I’ve known her. Evans thought it might distress her if he contacted her directly. He thought if he went through me … ‘

‘I understand,’ said Wesley quickly. ‘So the newspaper was right? Your wife is Arbel Harford?’

Jameston nodded.

‘Tell me about your meeting with Evans.’

‘We met for a drink one lunchtime. He said he’d been examining the case and certain things didn’t add up. The police had accepted the obvious explanation at the time but

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he thought the housekeeper was innocent, that she had been murdered along with the family. ‘

‘Had he any evidence?’

‘He said he was getting close to the truth.’

‘So who did he think killed the Harfords and Martha Wallace?’

‘He didn’t say. Presumably I’d have had to buy the book to find out. You know what these authors are like … never take kindly to giving away their endings.’

‘Did Evans speak to your wife?’

Jameston shook his head. ‘I told her what he’d said but she didn’t want to cooperate. She said she didn’t see the point in picking at old wounds.’