Cursed Inheritance (30 page)

‘Who was it?’ Heffeman growled.

Gibbons grinned, revealing a row of uneven, yellow teeth. ‘That friend of Miss Arbel’s was always hanging around the Hall and the grounds. She even used to come when Miss Arbel was away. Now why would she want to be doing that?’

‘Because she fancied Bleasdale?’

‘Got it in one. Want to know what her name was?’

Wesley sat back and said nothing. Richard Gibbons wasn’t the only one who could play games.

After a few moments, Heffeman spoke. ‘Could it be Gwen Madeley?’

The disappointed look on Gibbons’s face told Wesley all . he wanted to know.

Brenda had nothing to say that they hadn’t heard before.

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Her favoured tactic was to plead ignorance and Wesley knew that she was unlikely to give them anything worth-while. Besides, she had been nowhere near Potwoolstan Hall at the time of the murders. On her own admission, she had been investigating the possibilities of London at the time.

Wesley particularly wanted to talk to Arbel Harford. According to Trish Walton she had checked out of the Marina Hotel and was staying at Owen Madeley’s cottage, saying that it was nearer the Hall, where her husband was staying. And that she felt she ought to be there for Owen in case she returned. But even though the move seemed sensible, Wesley wasn’t happy about it. Owen Madeley had already disappeared. And he had an uneasy feeling that Arbel might be in danger.

He and Heffernan were about to set off but just as the chief inspector was leaving the office he received a call from Chief Superintendent Nutter, who wanted a progress report on the Evans murder. Heffernan took off his coat and slouched out of the office with a hangdog expression on his chubby face. There was little to report. Little that was positive anyway.

Wesley drove to Owen Madeley’s cottage alone. Perhaps Arbel might be more willing to talk one to one, he thought. When he arrived he was glad to see her Mercedes parked outside. She was in.

Arbel Jameston, nee Harford, seemed smaller, more vulnerable, than when she and Wesley had last met. She was dressed simply but expensively in well-cut black trousers and a silk shirt and there were dark rings beneath her eyes as though she hadn’t slept. She wore no make-up and there were no diamonds on her fmgers. But then Wesley had come unannounced: she hadn’t been expecting visitors.

‘Any news of Owen?’ she asked anxiously as soon as he’d crossed the threshold.

‘Sorry. But we’re doing all we can,’ he said, trying to

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sound convincing. ‘I’d just like to have an informal chat if that’s OK.’ .

Arbel didn’t seem to resent the intrusion, if anything she seemed grateful to have somebody to talk to. She invited Wesley to sit down while she put the kettle on for coffee but he followed her into the kitchen.

‘I’m sorry to descend on you like this, Mrs Jameston. Hope you don’t mind.’

She turned with the full kettle in her hand and looked at him with curiosity for a second before rearranging her features into an expression of helpful gratitude. ‘Of course 1 don’t. If there’s anything 1 can do to help you find Gwen, anything at all, I’m only too pleased to help. Not that 1 can add anything to what I’ve already told your colleagues.’ She looked Wesley up and down. ‘You don’t seem like your average country policeman.’ She immediately became flustered, as though she’d just realised that the comment might be misinterpreted as some sort of racist remark. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me ’” 1 don’t mean…’ She was blushing now.

Wesley took pity on her. ‘I didn’t start off as a policeman. My degree’s in archaeology.’

Arbel tilted her head to one side, a mannerism Wesley found attractive. ‘But you didn’t become an archaeologist?’

Wesley smiled. ‘I suppose archaeology has a lot in common with police work: gathering the clues, interpreting evidence, fitting that evidence into a likely scenario. They say inside every archaeologist there’s a detective waiting to get out and my grandfather was a chief superintendent back in Trinidad so law and order must run in the family.’ It was time to steer the subject back to Gwen Madeley. ‘I believe you and Gwen have been friends for a long time?’

‘Yes. We both went to the local school.’ She hesitated and her face clouded, as though she was remembering something painful. ‘Then 1 was sent away to boarding school when 1 was seven. But 1 saw Gwen in the holidays.’

‘Gwen has a brother.’

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Arbel turned her head away. ‘Dylan. He fell in with a bad crowd and became involved with drugs. He comes to Gwen when he wants money.’

‘Have you seen him recently?’

She shook her head. ‘Not for years.’

‘How often do you see Gwen?’

‘Not often. You know how it is. Busy lives.’

‘Where do you think she could be? Is there anywhere she’d be likely to go?’

‘I’ve really no idea. If I knew, I’d tell you.’

‘She wouldn’t be with Dylan?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘Do you mind talking about your family?’

There was no reply for a few moments, then she gave a slight shake of the head.

‘Do you remember a young woman called Pauline Black? Her father died in an industrial accident at your family’s brewery.’

‘I heard something about a man dying and his daughter turning up at the Hall. But I was away at school at the time. I never saw her.’

Wesley wondered whether to tell her about Pandora but decided against it. It would serve no purpose. ‘Do you remember the undergardener, Richard Gibbons?’

She smiled. ‘I remember some gormless lad who used to hang around the grounds with a rake, staring at my legs every time I set foot out of doors. Is that who you mean?’

The description seemed to fit Gibbons as he would have been almost twenty years ago. ‘Yes, that sounds like him. Tell me about the gardener, Victor Bleasdale.’

She studied her fingernails. ‘What about him?’

‘He went up to Yorkshire. Why did he leave?’

Arbel didn’t answer. She made the coffee and carried the two brimming mugs through to the living room, where she sat down on Gwen’s low sofa. Wesley took the chair opposite, watching her face.

‘Is there something about Bleasdale I should know?’

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‘Why?’

‘You don’t seem to want to talk about him.’

She picked her mug up and took another sip. The coffee was good, freshly ground. Pam always used instant these days. ‘If you must know,’ she said after a few moments, ‘there was a bit of a row a few weeks before he left.’

‘What was the row about?’

Another hesitation told Wesley that there was about to be an embarrassing revelation. He only hoped it was relevant to their enquiries. ‘Vic and Gwen … ‘ She let the sentence hang in the air for Wesley’s imagination to fill in the blanks.

‘Victor Bleasdale was sleeping with Gwen Madeley?’

Arbel nodded. ‘Her parents found out and her father went storming up to the Hall. I was there. It was rather embarrassing. Mr Madeley demanded that my father sack Vic.’

‘And did he?’

‘I think my father might have suggested to Vic that he look for work elsewhere but I don’t suppose he saw Vic’s inability to keep his trousers on as a reason to dismiss him immediately. It wasn’t as if Vichad seduced me or my sister, was it?’ She gave a nervous giggle, somehow incongruous in a woman of her age.

Wesley looked her in the eye. ‘So Gwen and Victor Bleasdale had an affair. Did she tell you about it?’

‘In glorious detail. She thought she was in love.’

‘Gwen never married.’

‘No.’

‘Do you think Victor Bleasdale could have killed your family?’

There was a slight, uncertain pause before she spoke. ‘No, of course not. He;d gone up north by then, hadn’t he?’

‘You seem to have some doubts.’

‘Well, Vic had a terrible temper and if my father had spoken to him about Gwen he might have resented … ‘ She shook her head. ‘I hadn’t been home for a while. And I was

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staying with a friend in London at the time so 1 didn’t really know what went on. But … ‘

‘But what?’

‘Vic did know where the guns were kept. And he probably knew that my father kept the key to the gun cupboard in his desk drawer. 1 remember him borrowing my father’s rifle to shoot crows once. His own was out of action for some reason. And he was a good shot. He used to be in the army.’

She gathered up the coffee mugs and bustled into the kitchen, her mind still on the events all those years ago. Wesley sat quite still on the sofa, cursing himself that he hadn’t discovered this information a long time ago. Bleasdale had been having an affair with Gwen Madeley, to her parents’ consternation. Bleasdale might have argued with Arbel’s father and had access to the guns that were used to kill the Harfords and Martha Wallace. And Bleasdale had disappeared.

Wesley followed Arbel into the kitchen again. There was one question he was longing to ask. .

‘How did Bleasdale get on with the housekeeper, Martha Wallace?’

Arbel turned around. ‘I remember my mother saying that they couldn’t stand each other.’

‘Did you tell any of this to the police at the time?’

She shook her head. ‘Vic was up north by then and they didn’t seem interested in what he got up to with one of the local girls. They seemed quite sure that Martha had done it.’ She paused. ‘But you’re not, are you?’

‘We think Patrick Evans was about to discover who really killed your family.’

Arbel stood at the sink with her head bowed. ‘I really don’t want it raked up again, Inspector. 1 still have nightmares about finding them, you know. Can’t everyone leave the whole thing alone?’ She spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. Wesley noticed that there were tears in her eyes and he felt like a bully. ‘I wish I’d met that man Evans. 1

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wish I’d had a chance to tell him how much pain he was causing.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But we think Evans died because of what he’d found out about the deaths at the Hall.’ Wesley paused. ‘There’s a possibility that the killer might still be around. And that means anybody connected with the case might be in danger. That’s why we’re worried about Gwen. Has she ever done anything like this before?’

Arbel’s eyes widened in-alarm. She was a frightened woman. A woman who had met death once and was terrified at the prospect of meeting it again.

‘Wouldn’t it be best if your husband stayed here with you?’ Wesley said, concerned.

‘He’s only at the Hall for a couple more days. I can manage on my own,’ she answered bravely.

‘It must have been a shock when you found out where he was.’

She gave a bitter smile. ‘Tony was never the most sensitive of people. But I think I understand why he came here. ‘

There was an awkward silence. She seemed to be taking her husband’s stay at the Hall very calmly, almost as though she had long ceased to care what he did.

She looked at her watch. ‘Look, it’s lunchtime. Gwen’s left plenty of stuff in the freezer. You will stay, won’t you?’ The invitation seemed sincere, not just given out of politeness.

Wesley hesitated. Then he thanked her and accepted. Mter all, the alternative was only a sandwich back at the office.

She hurried over to the freezer and opened the door, kneeling down to examine its neatly labelled contents. ‘There’s lobster in mornay sauce here. That OK for you? I can put it in the microwave.’

‘Great,’ Wesley said with a smile, thinking that Gwen Madeley wouldn’t even have had to have made much effort to provide Patrick Evans with his very last supper.

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Gerry Heffernan was sitting with his feet up on the desk, listening again to the tape Jeremy Elsham had made of Emma Oldchester’s journey back to childhood. He had played it so often he felt he almost knew it off by heart. Emma’s voice had begun to haunt his dreams.

But although the words had become so familiar, he kept listening in the hope that he’d hear something new. Something that would make everything clear at last. But it didn’t work. He heard the words but their meaning was still unfathomable.

When Wesley popped his head round the door, Heffernan looked up and grinned. ‘Had a nice lunch?’

Wesley came in and sat down with a sigh.

‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve had a good talk to Arbel Jameston and she told me some interesting things about Victor Bleasdale.’

‘What?’

‘She confirmed what Gibbons said about Bleasdale and Gwen Madeley. And she said it was possible that Bleasdale argued with Edward Harford over it. And she also said Bleasdale and Martha Wallace couldn’t stand the sight of each other.’ He paused, saving the best till last. ‘And Bleasdale used Harford’s rifle to shoot crows so he knew where to find the keys to the gun cupboard. He also used to be in the army. According to Arbel he was a crack shot. ‘

The chief inspector scratched his head while he took it all in. ‘But he was on his way to Yorkshire when it happened.’

‘Did anybody check properly at the time?’

Gerry Heffernan was uncomfortably aware that the answer was probably no. According to the records, a constable from North Yorkshire Constabulary had taken a statement to the effect that Bleasdale had left Devon on the morning before the murders to drive up north. He had broken the long journey with an overnight stay at a motel near Nottingham and arrived at his new place of employ-ment just after lunch the following day. Presumably the

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interviewing officer hadn’t asked to see any proof of this stay, such as a receipt, so it was possible that Bleasdale had either doubled back to Potwoolstan Hall or never left that day in the first place; a possibility that nobody seemed to have considered at the time.

‘I think our priority is to fmd Victor Bleasdale. I suppose we’d better start where he was last seen.’

Wesley stood up. ‘I think Gwen Madeley knew something and that’s why she’s gone missing. If she was having a relationship with Bleasdale … ‘

‘Think she’s dead?’

‘Let’s hope not, eh. But I did discover one interesting thing. Gwen Madeley’s freezer is full of lobster dishes. Do you think she might have been the person Evans stood Gibbons up for on the night he died?’