Cursed Inheritance (36 page)

‘Did the police check your alibi?’

Dylan shrugged. ‘Can’t remember.’ The two policemen glanced at each other. If Martha Wallace’s guilt had been assumed, perhaps not many questions were asked.

‘Do you remember the gardener at the Hall? Bleasdale he was called.’

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘And Brenda Varney, the cleaner?’

Dylan’s lips twitched upwards. ‘Yeah. I remember Brenda.’

‘She’s just been arrested. Had a seam going with Richard Gibbons. You remember him, don’t you?’

‘Yeah. What was the seam?’

‘She booked into health spas and residential courses pretending to be disabled. She stole from people on the upper

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floors and nobody suspected her because everyone assumed she couldn’t get up the stairs.

Dylan leaned forward. ‘I’d like to see Brenda again,’ he added wistfully. ‘Any chance you can arrange it?’

‘No chance,’ Heffernan muttered. ‘We’re not a lonely hearts bureau for villains.’

Wesley almost had to admire Dylan Madeley’s cheek. But in the state he was in, he was hardly the answer to a maiden’s prayer: even one like Brenda who’d been round the block a few times and wouldn’t be too choosy. ‘What about Arbel Harford?’

The tapping foot suddenly stilled. ‘What about her?’

‘She was friendly with your sister … ‘

‘On her terms. As long as Gwen knew her place.’ He hesitated. ‘Till the tables were turned.’

‘What do you mean?’

Dylan looked uneasy. ‘Till she had no one. Till she needed Gwen: that’s what I mean.’ His hands were shaking and sweat was running down his face.

‘You didn’t like the Harfords, did you? Mr Harford told you off for trespassing, I believe.’

No answer.

‘You were a good shot in those days.’

‘So?’ The tapping foot started up again, faster now.

‘You wanted revenge on the Harfords for all those little humiliations. You took a shotgun and a rifle and killed them. Then you killed their housekeeper to keep her quiet and made it look as if she’d done it. You wiped the weapons and put her prints on them. Clever. Did you know her little girl was hidden in the pantry watching?’

A bead of sweat dripped off Dylan’s nose and he banged on the table with his fist. ‘If that’s what you think you’ll have to fucking prove it.’

‘Did you meet Patrick Evans?’

‘Never heard of him. I want my fucking brief.’

But Wesley hadn’t finished. ‘Evans was writing a book about the murders at the Hall. He was looking for you. ‘

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‘Well, he didn’t fucking find me.’ He stood up. It was his .last word on the subject.

As Dylan Madeley was escorted from the room, Wesley had an uneasy feeling that they had just been face to face with a man capable of gunning down six innocent people. Dylan Madeley had just risen to the top of their list of suspects.

When they left Morbay police station, the wind was blowing stronger, swaying trees and sending litter dancing in an untidy ballet across the car park.

‘Going to be a gale tonight,’ Gerry said as he climbed into the passenger seat of the car.

Wesley drove back to Tradmouth the long way round. There was no way he was going to chance crossing the river again.

When Neil Watson arrived back at his flat, he found that all he wanted to do was sleep. He had spent the flight wide awake, reading the documents Hannah had given him, feeling a warm glow as he read those words that were a link to her.

He had hauled himself off the plane, made his way into London on the Heathrow Express and caught the train to Saint David’s Station in Exeter. When he reached the flat he felt like an explorer who had just completed an arduous expedition. And he needed sleep more than anything else. The wind was howling outside but this was one night when nothing would keep him awake.

As he drifted off into sleep, images of Annetown swam into his head and he saw Max sitting in the rocking chair on his front porch. Beside him sat a young woman dressed in the costume of an early settler, her white linen cap framing a small heart-shaped face with large brown eyes. It was a sweet dream. But it wasn’t long before it began to turn into a nightmare. .

Before the customary breakfast of organic muesli and fresh orange juice it was part of Jeremy Elsham’s daily routine

I

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to meditate in the woods leading down to the river. But that morning he sensed that the energy emitted by the gnarled stunted oaks had been disturbed somehow, probably by the gales during the night. He had always been sensitive to changes in his special place. His territory.

He placed his waterproof mat on the ground and zipped up the front of his warm fleece top before sitting down and crossing his legs, an action he performed with an athleti-cism rare in a man of his age.

Once he had arranged his body into his favoured position, Jeremy Elsham closed his eyes. Then he opened them again. Something was wrong with the spiritual energy of the woods. There was something evil here. Something out of place. And suddenly Elsham was afraid.

He rose slowly from his mat and began to wander through the budding trees, stepping over branches that had fallen in last night’s high winds. Eventually he reached the clearing near the water where, according to the police, Patrick Evans had met his death.

One of the trees there had been blown over and it still leaned dangerously, supported by its neighbours. The roots, exposed by the fall, protruded like dry bones from the ground, twisted, reaching for the light. Jeremy Elsham stared down at the earth: at the skeletal hand that was pointing up at him, accusing. He closed his eyes. Why did this have to happen now?

He took a deep, calming breath and returned to the place where he had left his mat. His body shaking, he sat down again and tried to meditate. But concentration was impossible.

He had to think. If he said nothing, the skeleton buried beneath the tree might go undiscovered for weeks, months, years.

Silence was the best way.

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We were married beneath the sail as our church is not

yet built, the fortifications being most pressing.

Penelope urges me to return to England but I tell

her this is folly as we have a new life here in this abundant land and as a younger son I have no fortune. I

have no desire to tell her of the events at Potwoolstan

Hall and the hatred the people bore towards my father

who took all blame upon himself.

Penelope urges me also to put myself forward, to be

seen to be a leader of men, so that I may be elected to

the Council in the place of those who have met with an

untimely death, but I have no such ambition. I have

resolved to live humbly and in repentance. High office

cannot be mine.

My wife thinks she may be with child. It may be that

this is the cause of her restless fancies.

Set down by Edmund Selbiwood, Gentleman, at

Annetown this twenty-fifth day of October 1605.

The case was giving Wesley sleepless nights and Pam had complained several times about the amount of time he was spending at work. Even her mother, Della, had made her unwelcome contribution, suggesting that Pam provide herself with a fancy man as she saw so little of the man she was married to - which was typical of Della.

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The one bright spot on this gloomy horizon was Neil’s return to Devon. As soon as he’d slept off his jet lag at his Exeter flat, he’d travelled straight to Somerset to attend his grandmother’s funeral. But now he was back and Wesley wanted to see him; to hear all about his Virginia experience. But he didn’t know when he’d find the time.

It was two days since they had reinterviewed Dylan Madeley in the presence of his solicitor but he had given nothing away. He had been supplied with methadone and Wesley suspected the drug had given him fresh confidence to follow the tried and trusted policy of denying everything and challenging the police to prove it. It was hard to gauge his feelings about his sister’s death because he said very little. Heffeman took this as a sign of guilt but Wesley was keeping an open mind.

They had spoken to Richard Gibbons and Brenda Vamey again but they had said nothing about Dylan Madeley, apart from the fact that he liked guns and hated the Harfords.

It seemed that Dylan Madeley was now up there amongst their top suspects and Wesley considered the possibilities. Perhaps Owen had given Patrick Evans his lobster dinner, then her brother had followed him from the cottage and murdered him. Or maybe Dylan had actually been at their meeting. Owen might have covered up for her brother out of misguided loyalty and then he had silenced her when he feared she might give him away.

The theory fitted. And it was the best one they had so far. .

Rachel Tracey passed Wesley’s desk and touched his shoulder gently. She looked serene in her crisp pale blue blouse and tight tweed skirt and she was wearing her fair hair loose. The sight of her somehow made Wesley feel wretched.

‘Have you made a decision about that flat yet?’ He tried to make the question sound casual.

‘Why?’

‘Just wondered.’ Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned it.

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‘I couldn’t make up my mind so it went to someone else,’ she said sadly. ‘I’m still looking, I suppose.’

As she walked back to her desk Wesley stood up and strolled over to Gerry Heffernan’s office.

‘You look like a lost soul, Wes. Come in.’ He stood at the door and called into the outer office. ‘Trish, love. We could do with some tea in here.’

Trish, engrossed in her paperwork, looked up and frowned.

‘Any thoughts on the case?’ Wesley asked.

Heffernan shook his head. ‘It’s that bastard Madeley.’

‘None of his prints were found in Evans’s hotel room.’

‘He wore gloves.’

‘Someone’s spoken to the people at the hostel Dylan Madeley was living in till he got thrown out. They said he’s been in a bad way but he always spoke fondly of his sister. They said he went to see her from time to time and she gave him money.’

ˇWhich he probably spent on drugs.’

‘True.’ Wesley could hardly deny that Dylan Madeley’s addiction had ruled him. It had probably made him desperate and deceptive; hardly the ideal brother . According to a couple of the residents at the hostel who knew him, he usually spent half his time drugged up and the other half looking for a fix. ‘Do you really think he’s capable of such I controlled and calculated murders?’ !

Heffernan looked at him, disappointed. ‘We’ve got him in custody on a robbery charge. All we have to do is keep on until he tells us the truth.’

‘I admire your optimism, Gerry. I don’t suppose anyone’s managed to persuade Emma Oldchester to leave Potwoolstan Hall yet?’

, She still says she’s not leaving till she knows what happened. I’ve never met such a stubborn … ‘

‘Has she been told about that doctor? Clive, is it? The psychiatrist? ‘ . ‘Of course. I’ve told her he’ll see her but, as I said, she’s stubborn.’

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Wesley stood up.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Arbel Jameston’s still at Gwen Madeley’s cottage. I thought I’d have a quick word with her. What do these companies call it? A courtesy call.’

‘Don’t upset her. She has friends in high places.’

‘I’ll take Rachel with me. We’ll be the souls of discretion,’ said Wesley as he disappeared out of the office.

They found Arbel Jameston in the garden, burning rubbish on a small bonfire. When they arrived she offered them tea, her manner slightly distant but scrupulously polite. Wesley and Rachel followed her inside the cottage and made themselves comfortable on the sofa while she busied herself in the kitchen.

Wesley decided it was time to break the news. ‘We’ve found Dylan Madeley. He robbed a shop. He’s in custody at Morbay police station.’

Arbel frowned. ‘I wish they’d lock Dylan up and throw away the key. He’s always been trouble. Always turning up on poor Gwen’s doorstep demanding money. She was frightened of him, you know. She was even contemplating moving to the Hall: there’s a room she could have had in the staff quarters. If she’d moved she might still be alive.’

‘Did she mention Dylan when you last spoke to her?’

‘We spoke on the phone a couple of days before I came down and she said she was worried about him. Apparently he’d been round and she said she’d tell me all about it when I came down here.’ She hesitated. ‘But she never got the chance, did she?’

‘Do you think Dylan Madeley killed his sister?’

Arbel shook her head. ‘I really don’t know what to think. If he’d come to her for money and she’d refused…’

‘She took tranquillisers?’

Arbel nodded. ‘Her nerves weren’t good. Worry about Dylan, I suppose.’

‘What have you been burning?’ Rachel asked.

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Arbel blushed and stood up. ‘If you must know I’ve burned some of her pictures. You might think I’ve no right to do that but I think it’s for the best. They could cause a lot of pain if some idiot tried to put them in an exhibition or … ‘

‘Do you mean those pictures of the murder scene that were in the cupboard in her studio?’

Arbel raised her carefully plucked eyebrows. ‘You know about them?’

Wesley nodded.

‘I found them yesterday. I can’t think why Gwen painted pictures like that. I mean … ‘ She moved over to the window and stared out. ‘She told me she didn’t go up there; that she never saw the bodies. But she painted the scene just as I found it.’

She turned and looked at Wesley with pleading eyes. ‘Don’t you see? She must have been there before I arrived. Why didn’t she mention it to me … or the police?’ She stared at Wesley as though she expected him. to have the answer. But he shook his head.

There was a period of silence before Wesley spoke again. ‘Is it possible that Dylan killed your family and Gwen covered up for him?’

Arbel thought for a few moments, more tears welling in her eyes. She shook her head. ‘She was my friend.’