Cursed Inheritance (34 page)

‘Do you know anybody else who could identify her? A relative perhaps. Or a neighbour?’

‘There’s the people she worked with at the Hall. And there’s her brother, Dylan.’

‘We’ve not been able to trace him.’

“Gwen said he was staying in some sort of hostel. 1 thought he might have visited her the night she went missing. Gwen wouldn’t have left that broken mug on the floor like that. He’s been violent before when he’s desperate. 1 kept telling her to tell the police. But he was her brother … ‘ She looked Wesley in the eye. ‘I don’t like Dylan Madeley. And 1 don’t trust him. And if Gwen was depressed it was probably because of hiin. ‘

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‘What was Dylan’s relationship with your family?’

‘Not good. My father told him off for trespassing.’ She looked up at Wesley. ‘And he used to shoot the crows with Bleasdale, the gardener. He gave me the creeps.’

‘But you stayed with the Madeleys when your family died?’

‘Dylan had left home a few weeks before. I wouldn’t have stayed with Owen if he’d been there.’ She paused. ‘You don’t think he could have … ?’

Wesley said nothing. He wasn’t jumping to any conclu-sions.

‘Will you go back to London now?’

Arbel sighed. ‘I feel I ought to stay and sort things out. Owen had no one else.’

They took their leave of Arbel, muttering trite condolences. Nothing they could say would be adequate. Wesley glanced back at the cottage as they climbed into the car and saw that Arbel was watching them from the window, still and pale.

They drove the short distance to Potwoolstan Hall, parking in the forbidden space at the front of the house, their arrival announced by a fanfare of cawing crows in the glowering trees. In the Hall they found Pandora occupying Elsham’s office, sitting behind her husband’s desk, surrounded by what looked like the Hall’s accounts. When they broke the news about Owen Madeley she nodded wearily, as though death had become a grim, ever-present companion, hardly unexpected. Wesley offered to drive her down to Tradmouth to identify the body and Pandora didn’t protest. She left a note for her husband, who was at the moment taking one of their new Beings on a journey back to a former life.

Bookings at the Hall had fallen off since the news about Evans’s murder got out, Pandora complained as they drove. People had cancelled, murder hardly being conducive to spiritual peace. The newspapers had seized on the death in the grounds, making the most of the Hall’s grim past. ‘Murder Hall’, one tabloid had screeched. ‘The House of

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Death’ had been another’s not too original contribution. Whoever had killed Patrick Evans was also killing Jeremy Elsham’s nice little business.

Pandora identified Gwen Madeley’s body with no overt show of emotion. She looked down as the crisp white sheet was drawn aside from the dead woman’s face and gave a brisk nod. ‘That’s Gwen Madeley. Can I go back now?’

As they left the room, Wesley glanced back at the white form on the trolley. He was certain Gwen Madeley had known who killed the Harfords. And now she was dead, possibly by her own hand. Rather like Martha Wallace.

They didn’t see Colin Bowman at the mortuary. He was in the middle of a postmortem on a road accident victim. But when Wesley returned to the office after dropping Pandora back at Potwoolstan Hall, there was a message from the pathologist waiting for him on his desk. The coroner had given permission for Patrick Evans’ s body to be released for burial. Wesley picked up the phone, hoping that Kirsty Evans would be home. He didn’t fancy leaving such a message on her answering machine: it seemed impersonal somehow. And inappropriate in the circumstances.

He was in luck. She picked up the receiver after the fourth ring. As soon as he heard her voice, his mind went blank as he searched frantically for the right words to say. But after a few seconds of silence he collected his thoughts and broke the news gently before enquiring how Kirsty was.

She told him she’d been staying with her parents for a few days and had only just returned to London. It was best to resume her normal routine, she explained. She had her life to lead and she couldn’t mourn for ever. She would travel down to Devon the next day, she said. She looked forward to seeing him then. Wesley sensed that she was putting on a brave face. The reality, he was afraid, would probably hit her later, merciless as a sledgehammer.

Wesley looked at his watch and saw that it was almost eight thirty. It was time to head home.

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In the doorway of the dry cleaner’s Dylan Madeley sat and shivered. The parade of shops had been built in the Sixties to serve the Winterham estate on the outskirts of Morbay: a bleak land where nobody, not even the most courageous police dog, would venture out of choice. The doorway smelled of urine and the strengthening wind made the litter dance in circles on the filthy pavement.

Dylan put a cold hand to his face and felt moisture on his cheek. He needed another fix. It was the only thing that would blot out the fear and the anger. The hostel had insisted that he stay clean. But he had lapsed and they had told him to go; returned him to the streets. It was the rules. No drink, no drugs. Dylan had fallen from grace as he had so many times before. And now he needed money to pay for it.

He stood up, his limbs aching and his mouth parched. He needed the stuff soon and desperation gave him new strength to walk the hundred or so yards to the small convenience shop which stood out like a beacon amongst its darkened neighbours - some shuttered, some boarded up. A gang of hooded youngsters outside the shop were laughing loudly and kicking a can about. Dylan stood and watched as one by one the teenagers ventured inside, only to emerge again quickly, chucked out by the elderly Indian owner whose instincts told him they were trouble. On his return, each adventurer would be greeted with loud cheers as if he had completed some daring feat. Then the spoils would be shared: a purloined packet of crisps or a stolen chocolate bar. Dylan watched this ritual repeated several times.

Dylan waited until the boys had wandered away in search of alternative entertainment before walking in and pushing the old man to the ground as he helped himself to the contents of the till. He had no thought for his victim: he was only aware of his own need for chemical oblivion, of the sweat of his body and the sandpaper dryness in his mouth. And of his own pain.

Once he had tried so hard. But she had spoiled it all and now it was too late. He didn’t care any more. Not even

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when he was running to the lock-up garage where the dealer hung out and the police car drew up alongside him.

‘How was Yorkshire?’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘OK. Where are the kids?;

‘In bed.’ There was a hint of reproach in Pam’s voice. ‘We’ve had another email from Neil. Bad news.’

Wesley hung his coat carefully on the hook by the door he always used and placed his car keys in the drawer of the hall table. ‘What?’

‘Max is dead. Heart attack, apparently.’

‘That’s terrib le. ‘

‘It gets worse. He’s just heard that his grandmother’s died. He wasn’t due back till next week but he’s cutting short his visit. He’s getting the first plane out.’

‘That’s a shame.’ It was sad but Wesley assumed that Max Selbiwood and Neil’s grandmother had had a good innings, unlike Patrick Evans and Gwen Madeley.

‘I didn’t make you any supper,’ Pam said pointedly. ‘Didn’t know what time you’d be home.’

‘Have you eaten?’

‘I had some of Michael’s fish fingers.’ The tone of her voice was calculated to produce guilt in any but the most insensitive of husbands.

Wesley picked up the phone. A takeaway pizza would keep the peace. For the time being.

Wesley knew better than to ask to see the children. According to Pam, a visit from Daddy might wake them up: or worse still make them over-excited. Sometimes he suspected this was Pam’s way of punishing him for his long absences from home.

She led the way into the living room. It seemed unnaturally tidy, which made Wesley feel slightly uncomfortable. He sat down in his favourite chair and picked up the TV remote control.

‘Want to see Neil’s email?’ Pam stood in front of him expectantly, waving a sheet of paper. ‘He says he wants

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more pictures of Potwoolstan Hall to send back to the States. ‘

‘The ones we’ve got of that place down at the station are hardly suitable.’

The subject of Potwoolstan Hall had jogged her memory. There was something she had to show him. She picked up a newspaper that lay on the coffee table.

‘I saw this in yesterday’s paper. It mentions Potwoolstan Hall. I kept it. Thought you might be interested.’ She pointed to the photograph of a woman with a prematurely aged face and dishevelled blond hair. ‘She was a friend of that poor girl whose family were murdered.’

Wesley took the paper from her and began to read. Jo Mylcomb, a divorcee living in the village of Trecowan on the Cornish coast, had been involved in an acrimonious dispute with her retired neighbour over the height of his hedge. She had taken the law - and a hedge trimmer - into her own hands and reduced the size of the problem. The litigious neighbour had taken her to court, claiming Ms Mylcomb had been a thorn in his side from the time she had moved in two years ago.

One sentence gave the game away. Pam had done well to spot it. ‘Jo Mylcomb,’ it said, ‘was last in the news almost twenty years ago when her school friend Arbel Harford’s family were murdered at Potwoolstan Hall in Devon. Arbel had been staying with Ms Mylcomb - then Jocasta Childs - at the time of the tragedy.’

Wesley smiled, delighted that some diligent journalist had been doing his or her homework. A Jocasta Childs had been on Patrick Evans’s list but they’d had no luck tracing her. Now, through Providence and Pam’s sharp eyes, he’d found her. And fortunately she wasn’t too far away.

He just hoped her recent brush with the law hadn’t put her off cooperating with the police altogether.

He put his ann round Pam and kissed her. ‘Forgiven?’

‘For now,’ she said wearily as the pizza delivery man rang the doorbell.

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Steve Carstairs greeted Wesley with his customary morning scowl as he entered the office. All Wesley’s hopes that their weekend in Yorkshire would improve matters had clearly been in vain.

‘Call from Morbay nick. Bloke called Dylan Madeley was picked up last night for robbery. Gave a Paki shopkeeper a shove and pinched the contents of the till.’ There was something in Steve’s voice which made Wesley suspect that he thought the robber deserved a medal.

‘Dylan Madeley? Gwen Madeley’s brother?’

‘Well, there can’t be too many Dylan Madeleys about, can there?’

Wesley ignored the sarcasm. He had been asking for it: it had been a silly question.

‘I’m attending his sister’s postmortem this morning. I’ll go across to Morbay afterwards.’

‘I’ll go if you like.’

‘Thanks, Steve, but I think I’d like to see him for myself. ‘

Steve shrugged and returned to his paperwork.

Heffernan looked up as he opened the office door. ‘You’re late. What’s new?’

‘Gwen Madeley’s brother’s turned up. He’s enjoying the hospitality of Morbay nick. Robbed a shop.’

‘Someone better break the bad news about his sister. And we need to question him. He was on Patrick Evans’s list.’

‘And he used to shoot crows with Victor Bleasdale.’

Gerry Heffernan shrugged. ‘Motive?’

‘He argued with Edward Harford?’

Heffernan held a hand up. ‘Just remembered. I had a word with Clive Wellings yesterday after church.’

Wesley looked puzzled.

‘The psychiatrist. He’s one of our bellringers at St Margaret’s. He said he’s willing to see Emma Oldchester.’

‘Now all we’ve got to do is persuade her. And that might be easier said than done.’ He sat down and pushed a pile of papers on the chief inspector’s desk to one side. ‘I think

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I’ve located someone else on Evans’s list. Jocasta Childs: the friend Arbel Harford was staying with in London. She lives in Cornwall and she’s been up in court for chopping down a neighbour’s hedge.’

‘But she wasn’t anywhere near the Hall at the time of the murders.’

‘She was on Evans’s list. And she might provide us with some insights into the Harford family. Something Arbel confided to her but hasn’t told us.’

‘OK. We can pay her a visit after we’ve seen Dylan Madeley.’

Wesley managed a half-hearted smile and looked at his watch. They were due to witness Gwen Madeley’s postmortem in just over an hour’s time. He was about to catch up on his paperwork but Heffernan had other ideas. ‘Want to go over everything we’ve got?’

The chief inspector was right. It would help to focus their thoughts. He glanced at the office outside: at the officers working busily at their desks and the large notice board which took up most of the far wall, decorated with photographs of the dead and Gerry Heffeman’s scrawled comments.

Heffernan took a deep breath that put a considerable strain on his shirt buttons. ‘Victim,’ he began. ‘Patrick Evans. He was writing a book about what happened at Potwoolstan Hall and someone wanted to stop him.’

‘What about Gwen Madeley?’

‘We don’t know if it’s suicide, accident or murder yet. No use speculating until after the postmortem.’

‘We have to bear in mind her connections with the Harford case. She was a frequent visitor to the Hall and Arbel Harford stayed with her after the killings, And, according to Arbel, she had been having a sexual relationship with one of the victims, Nigel Armley. And with our missing gardener, Victor Bleasdale.’

‘Emma Oldchester named Bleasdale under hypnosis. Could he have killed the Harfords?’

‘He was supposed to be on his way to Yorkshire when

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the killings occurred but he could have lain low all day, killed them, then driven up overnight. Nobody thought to check the motel he claimed to have used at the time. Then there’s his disappearance. His car was found burned out. And the fact that his job up there didn’t go well and he left after a couple of weeks. Why uproot yourself for a job that’s not as good as the one you’ve already got, then leave right away? It doesn’t make sense.’