Cursed Inheritance (21 page)

‘She cooks lobsters in that. I don’t know how she can do it … boil the poor things alive. You can buy them in Bloxham still walking along the quayside.’ She shuddered. Wesley supposed that Arbel Jameston, nee Harford, had had enough of suffering and death to last her a lifetime.

Anthony Jameston rolled his eyes. ‘Arbel’s rather squeamish, I’m afraid.’

‘So Ms Madeley doesn’t share Jeremy Elsham’s vegetarian principles?’

‘Obviously not. ‘

Wesley wondered how long it would take Gerry Heffeman to get rid of Serena Jones. He had something to tell him. If Gwen Madeley was fond of lobster it was likely she’d cook it for guests. Patrick Evans had eaten lobster shortly before he died in the grounds of Potwoolstan Hall.

And Gwen Madeley was missing.

‘That cheeky madam, Serena whatshemame’s confirmed that Steve’s been telling her all our little secrets. I’m going to have him in my office as soon as he gets back and ask him how he fancies going back to handing out parking tickets.’ Heffeman grinned wickedly. ‘She kept trying to change the subject. Kept

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asking me if we’re any nearer finding Evans’ s killer. ‘

‘And are we?’

Heffernan didn’t answer. The police were clueless - just like in Serena Jones’s headline.

‘Any word on the Madeley woman yet?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘As Arbel Jameston said, it’s far too early to panic. She’s probably out shopping. But as she’s had dealings with Evans I’ve circulated her description and her car registration number … just in case.’

Heffernan slumped in his chair. He looked tired. ‘Do you understand what’s going on yet, Wes?’

‘I think Patrick Evans’s death is linked to the murders at Potwoolstan Hall. Which, presumably, means that Martha Wallace was murdered too and it was made to look like suicide. Was there any suspicion at the time that she might have been innocent?’

Heffernan shook his head. ‘Not really.’

‘I’ve been looking through the file and there were a few people at Potwoolstan Hall at the time we should be having a look at. There’s Brenda Varney, the cleaner who stole the jewellery from Mary Harford and promptly disappeared. It was rumoured at the time that she had some pretty unsavoury friends. And the dead crows nailed to the doors is just the sort of theatrical touch that would appeal to a girl like that. ‘

‘You’re being very judgemental today, Wes,’ Heffernan laughed.

Wesley smiled. ‘Then there are the two gardeners, Richard Gibbons and Victor Bleasdale. We have an address for Gibbons - he’s got form for shoplifting - but Bleasdale’s whereabouts are unknown. ‘

‘Bleasdale left the morning before the murders. ‘ He grinned. ‘You’re not the only one who’s been reading those files.’

‘He might still be worth talking to. Who else is there?’

‘Well, there’s Gwen Madeley. She was Arbel Harford’s mate but I can’t see her having a motive, can you?’

‘She might still know something; something she told Patrick Evans over a cosy lobster dinner.’

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‘What about Arbel herself? She inherited the lot, didn’t she?’

‘She couldn’t even stand the thought of boiling a lobster alive so 1 can’t see her cold-bloodedly wiping out her family and their housekeeper. Besides, she has a cast-iron alibi for the time of the murders. She was staying with a friend in London. She went to a party and drove back to Devon first thing the next morning: it was her mother’s birthday and they were having a family party that evening. She arrived at the Hall about eleven, which is the exact time of the 999 call from the murder scene. The victims had died between nine and ten o’clock the previous night so we can safely rule her out. What about enemies of the family? Disgruntled employees?’

‘Gwen Madeley has an elder brother, Dylan, who has convictions for robbery and possession of drugs. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s done a bit of dealing too in his time. He left home a few weeks before the killings.’

‘I wonder if he’s still in touch with his sister?’

‘Unfortunately, the computer doesn’t tell us that so we’ll just have to ask her when she turns up. A young woman called Pauline Black gets a mention in the files. Her dad died in an industrial accident at the brewery the Harfords owned. Pauline took them to court but lost the case. The Harfords’ lawyer managed to convince the court that the victim had been careless and hadn’t followed safety procedures. She’d been to the Hall to confront Jack Harford and there was a row. She was interviewed at the time but she wasn’t a serious suspect.’

‘I’ll ask Rachel to see if she can trace her.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t see any other likely suspects. Maybe we should be digging deeper.’

‘The killer knew where the guns were kept so he’d have had to be close to the household.’ Heffernan turned a pen over and over in his chubby fingers. ‘There’s someone we haven’t mentioned yet. Not that she’d be a suspect. But she might be a possible witness.’

‘Who?’

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‘Martha Wallace had a little girl. She was seven at the time and she was found in the kitchen with her mother’s body. She was too traumatised to say anything. Poor kid.’

‘Do we know what happened to her?’

‘She was taken in by her mother’s cousin and his wife.’

‘Local?’

‘I believe so. She’ll be in her twenties now. If she’s made a new life for herself I don’t want to rake it all up again, but it may be necessary.’ Heffernan sighed. ‘Can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.’

‘I’d like to leave her out of it if at all possible.’

‘So would I, Wes. But, who knows, she might hold the key to this whole business. We’ll have to talk to her.’

Wesley couldn’t argue with that. He’d ask Rachel to see to it as soon as possible. If little Emma Wallace had stayed in the area, it shouldn’t be hard to find her. But for all they knew, she could be on the other side of the world by now.

Wesley left the chief inspector’s office. He had things to organise, things to check up on. Reports to write. When he came to a natural break, he looked at his watch and saw that it was almost six o’clock. How time flew when you were overworked.

His brain was spinning. He’d had no luck contacting Evans’s elusive publisher and they were still waiting for Gwen Madeley to turn up. Rachel was attempting to trace Martha Wallace’s daughter and Pauline Black, and she had delegated the job of finding the gardener, Bleasdale and Gwen Madeley’s brother, Dylan, to Steve and Darren Wentworth. Something was bound to turn up soon.

As it was now almost certain that Patrick Evans didn’t eat at any local restaurant on the evening of his death, it was just possible that Gwen Madeley had provided him with his last lobster supper. They knew Evans had spoken to her. Perhaps she’d had more to tell him so he went back. He couldn’t imagine why Gwen would want to kill Evans. But he still couldn’t get her criminally inclined brother, Dylan, out of his mind. Wherever he was.

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He reached for his coat. It was time he went home. If he wanted to be any use tomorrow he needed some rest.

He was about to leave the office when Rachel caught his eye. ‘I’ve traced Emma Wallace’s foster parents - a Mr and Mrs Harper. Joe Harper was Martha Wallace’s cousin and he and his wife couldn’t have children of their own so the arrangement suited everybody. Mrs Harper died a couple of years ago but I’ve spoken to Joe Harper on the phone and he’s given me Emma’s present address. He’s asked us not to bother her unless it’s absolutely necessary. He said they never talked to Emma about what happened and she never spoke about her natural mother or her life at the Hall. He and his wife reckoned it was best that way.’

‘He could be right. If she’s erased the memories, I’d be reluctant to stir them up again.’ Wesley knew when he was out of his depth. It would be best if Emma, when they found her, was interviewed by an expert - someone who knew how to handle such delicate situations. ‘Did Harper mention Patrick Evans?’

‘Yes. He said Evans phoned him a few times but he refused to meet him. And he told him to stay away from Emma.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘In that case I’d better have a word with Mr Harper. When I’ve got a minute.

When the telephone on Wesley’s desk began to ring he hesitated, wondering whether to leave it and make his way home or answer it and risk being home late … again. He flung his coat down and picked up the receiver. For all he knew it could be important. It could be the breakthrough he was waiting for.

He was surprised to hear Kirsty Evans’ s voice on the other end of the line. He had almost forgotten her existence.

‘Inspector Peterson? This is Kirsty Evans.’ She spoke tentatively, as though she wasn’t quite sure whether she was doing the right thing.

‘How are you, Mrs Evans?’

‘OK.’ From the tone of her voice this was a lie.

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‘What can 1 do for you?’ He put on his most sympathetic voice, the one he knew instinctively that his parents used when dealing with their patients, particularly the ones that had been through a bad time.

‘I’ve been sorting out Paddy’s clothes. I’m sending the

good ones to Oxfam. 1 thought it was the right thing to do. ‘ The words came out quickly, as though she’d been rehears—

ing what she was going to say. Then there was a pause while she collected her thoughts. ‘I looked in all his pockets to make sure he hadn’t left anything … ‘

‘You found something?’ Wesley tried not to sound too

eager.

‘Yes. A list of names and addresses. Just scribbled. 1

don’t know if it’s any use but 1 thought I’d better tell you.’

Wesley took a deep breath, telling himself to be patient.

‘Thank you. You did the right thing. Have you got the list

there?’

Kirsty recited the contents of the list her late husband had

made, her voice shaking slightly. The experience of clearing out his most personal things had clearly upset her.

Wesley wrote quickly, stopping Kirsty in mid-flow from

time to time so that he could catch up and to check

spellings.

‘Are you all right?’ he said gently when she had finished.

‘Yes. Of course 1 am.’ Her confident words didn’t

convince Wesley. ‘Look, 1 have to come down to Devon

again tomorrow to make some arrangements … about

Patrick’s body and … I’ll see you then, shall I?’

Wesley heard himself saying yes, he’d meet her for

lunch. They could have a long talk. It wasn’t until he put

the phone down that he started to doubt the wisdom of

acting as a shoulder to cry on. Perhaps he should have

passed her over to Rachel. His sister, Maritia, had always

accused him of being too soft. Probably not a good trait in

a policeman.

He looked down at the names and addresses he had . copied down and felt a glow of satisfaction. Patrick Evans

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had traced the gardener, Bleasdale, to an address in North Yorkshire. Mr Joe Harper, Martha Wallace’s cousin, was on the list and’ there was an address for an Emma Oldchester on an estate of new houses on the outskirts of Neston. Emma: Martha Wallace’s daughter.

Richard Gibbons was there too, as was Gwen Madeley. Dylan Madeley’s name was there but there was no address for him. Arbel Jameston, he noticed, didn’t feature on the list at all.

There were a few more names without addresses; names which, according to Kirsty were followed by a large question mark. The first was Brenda Varney, the light-fingered cleaner: her whereabouts were still a mystery. And the second was Pauline Black, the dead employee’s daughter. There was also a Jocasta Childs. Her name was followed by a large tick. What this meant, Wesley hadn’t the faintest idea.

He looked at his watch. If he headed for home now, there was a chance that his supper wouldn’t be congealing in the microwave. He left the office, giving Rachel Tracey a shy smile on his way out.

‘I’ve seen an advert for a flat,’ she said when he was halfway out of the door.

He turned. ‘Where is it?’

‘Above an art gallery on Armada Street. Two bedrooms. ‘

Wesley noticed that Darren Wentworth was watching him. ‘I’d better go,’ he said quickly, avoiding Rachel’s eyes.

‘Are you ready, Max?’ Somehow Neil couldn’t bring himself to address Max Selbiwood as Granddad.

The old man donned his baseball cap with a flourish and grinned. ‘Ready as I’ll ever be. ‘

They climbed into Chuck’s pick-up and drove through the suburbs of New Annetown, past white clapboard houses and a little white colonial church, straight off a picture postcard. Everything appeared ordered and polished in this green and white landscape. Even the reconstructed first settlement with

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its little thatched houses had seemed tidy and well organised and Neil wondered how accurate this was. In the seventeenth century there would have been dirt, disease and fear. And social envy as the artisans did all the work and the gentlemen did all the talking in their brave new world.

The sun was shining down as usual as they reached Old Annetown. Coming from England, Neil regarded constant good weather as a novelty and he said as much to Max. But Max didn’t reply, he was too busy looking out of the window, as excited as a child about to pass through the gates of Disneyland.

Neil led Max past the exhibition centre and laboratories and on to the site of the main excavation. He would save the reconstructed settlement and the replica of the Nicholas till last.

Hanna Gotleib was taking photographs but when she spotted Neil she raised a hand in greeting and Neil waved back.

‘Friend of yours?’ Max asked with a twinkle in his voice.

‘Colleague. ‘

But Max was grinning. He was a perceptive old boy and Neil knew that he was in danger of underestimating him. ‘Yeah, right. Sure she is.’

Neil turned the conversation to archaeology. ‘They found two skeletons; both shot with musket balls. Seems that life in old Annetown wasn’t all hymn singing and growing vegetables. You all right, Max?’