Cursed Inheritance (37 page)

‘And Dylan was her brother. In spite of everything she might have pilt her loyalty to him above her loyalty to her friends. ‘

Arbel looked confused. ‘I don’t know. ‘

‘If there are any pictures you haven’t burned yet I’d like to see them if I may.’

She hesitated for a moment then left the room without a word.

‘What do you think?’ Rachel whispered.

‘Must be a shock finding out that someone you’d trusted could have shielded the person who murdered your family. ‘

Their conversation was cut short by Arbel’s return. She

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placed two paintings on the coffee table in front of them. The first showed Catriona Harford slumped on the floor in the drawing-room doorway, the bullet wound on her forehead glistening red. The second showed Martha Wallace slumped at her kitchen table. Arbel was right. Some bright spark might have wanted to exhibit these obscene things in the name of art, causing considerable distress to Arbel herself and Emma Oldchester.

‘These are different.’ Rachel picked up a third canvas. Wesley recognised the subject at once: Dylan Madeley - much younger, before the drugs had ravaged his face. It had been painted lovingly and there was a softness, a vulnerability about the subject that had disappeared with years of chemical abuse. He put it to one side and looked at the one behind it.

It was slightly smaller than the others and was a half-length portrait of Nigel Armley. He was dressed in an open-necked shirt and looked more attractive than he had done in his photograph. Gwen had captured that elusive quality, charm.

‘I told you she had a crush on him,’ said Arbel.

‘Crush?’ Wesley thought it a strange choice of word.

‘Do you want to take these pictures? Are they evidence?’

‘No. You can bum the ones of the Hall if you want,’ Wesley said. He saw no reason why the obscene things should exist any longer than necessary. ‘But I’ll keep the ones of Nigel Armley and Dylan Madeley. Armley reminds me of someone but I can’t think who it is.’ He stood up to go.

‘By the way, do you have an address for Iocasta Childs, the friend you were staying with when … ?’

Arbel shook her head. ‘Sorry. I lost touch with 10 years ago. Why?’

‘I believe she lives in Cornwall now. There was a piece in the newspaper about her. Seems she’s been having trouble with her neighbours.’

‘Well, you know more than I do.’ Arbel didn’t appear to

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be particularly interested. It seemed she had no desire to renew old acquaintances.

She put out a hand. ‘I’ve decided not to go back to London until after Gwen’s funeral. I’m her executor so I’ll have a lot to do here.’

‘Take care of yourself,’ Wesley said as he took her hand. ‘And if you need anything, you have my number.’

He walked away, wondering when he’d hear from her again. And saying a silent, unformed prayer for her safety.

After attending his grandmother’s funeral, Neil had stayed with his parents for a couple ofdays , recovering from the effects of jet lag. When he could no longer tolerate domestic life he had returned to Exeter, unable to get Potwoolstan Hall out of his mind. He wanted more than anything to see the place for himself and Wesley had agreed to meet him there, saying there was someone he needed to speak to in the line of duty. When Neil drove his old yellow Mini in through the gates Wesley was waiting for him.

‘How did the funeral go?’ he asked as Neil climbed from the tiny car.

‘As funerals do. ‘

Wesley sensed he didn’t want to dwell on the subject. He wandered up the drive towards the Hall and Neil fell in by his side.

Wesley felt obliged to fill the silence with talk and he decided that architecture was a safe subject. ‘The house was gutted in the nineteenth century with all the sensitivity the Victorians usually showed to ancient buildings. Then it was messed around again when it was converted into the healing centre. Not many original features left, I’m afraid, except the staircase and the facade.’

When they reached the Hall, Neil stopped and gazed up at the building. He didn’t know what he felt. Sadness? A longing for something lost for ever? Or merely disappointment? He thought of Hannah Gotleib, who would imagine the place to be as it was when Edmund Selbiwood sailed for

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Virginia: all beams, dark floorboards, limewashed walls and sparse oak furniture, heavy and blackened.

‘Want to go in? There’s someone I have to see. I’m sure I can square it with the owners for you to have a look around.’

Neil shook his head. ‘I think I’ve changed my mind. It’s not quite what I expected.’ He took a small digital camera from the pocket of his denim jacket. ‘But I said I’d send some pictures to Hannah.’

‘Hannah, eh?’

Neil turned away. Wesley had miscalculated. His friend wasn’t in the mood for teasing.

‘I’d better go in. Are you waiting here or … ?’

‘No. I’ll see you tonight. You want to hear about Virginia, I take it?’

As he marched off, Wesley felt uneasy. There was something different about Neil. A new hardness, almost a bitterness. And Wesley was curious.

Emma Oldchester was waiting in the conservatory and he thought she looked pleased to see him, which was a good sign. It meant that she might take notice of what he had to say.

‘How are you?’ he asked as they sat down. He spoke in :l whisper. There were others in the room, a pair of clean- :ut men in blue towelling pyjamas sipping carrot juice in the corner and a woman in dark glasses reading by the window.

‘I’m OK.’ Her hand went up to her cheek, a nervous
esture. She leaned forward and spoke in a low whisper. ‘But I keep having this dream. I’m running through a
tream of blood flowing down the hall and my feet are
quelching in the scarlet mess and I keep falling over and
etting blood all over me. There’s a man and a woman but hey don’t see me. They’ve got blank spaces where their faces should be. Sometimes the faces flicker like a faulty rv screen and I can make out an eye or a nose. Then I wake up, sweating, with tears streaming down my face.’

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‘And you still want to stay here?’

Tve got to remember. If Jeremy regresses me again … ‘

‘Chief Inspector Heffeman told you about Dr Wellings, didn’t he?’

Emma stood up. ‘I don’t need a psychiatrist. I’m n01 mad.’

‘I never said you were. Dr Wellings would be able tc hypnotise you properly. He’s an expert, Emma. He knOW! what he’s doing. Go home and we’ll arrange an appointment. Please. I don’t think you realise how much dangeJ you’re in.’

‘I’m booked in till Monday.’

‘What’s the point of staying if Jeremy Elsham won’t de what you want?’

Her eyes were moist with tears. ‘You don’t understand. This is the only place I feel close to her, to Mum. I sometimes go into the room that used to be the kitchen and knee in the exact spot where she died. And I’ve found the fla! where we lived. It’s empty now. I sit in there just trying te remember her. ‘

Wesley put his hand on hers and squeezed it. ‘I do under-sund. But I still think you should leave.’

She dabbed her eyes with a crumpled tissue. ‘I don’! know.’ She looked at the dainty watch on her wrist. ‘1‘1 have to go. I’m having my aura read.’

As she hurried from the room Wesley watched her go. not knowing what to do for the best.

Gwen Madeley’s portraits of her brother, Dylan, and 0: Nigel Armley stood propped up on an easel designed t( hold a flip chart. Wesley had stared at them, studied them but it hadn’t helped. Perhaps he should have let Arbel burr them with the rest.

He wanted to speak to Dylan Madeley again. He wai sure he would have been quite capable of killing the Harfords as well as Evans and his own sister.

And then there was Jeremy Elsham, the man whose pas

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was shrouded in mystery. He didn’t trust Elsham: and he hadn’t forgotten that his wife, Pandora, had good reason to hate the Harford family. Why had they really bought Potwoolstan Hall? Was it just because it had been cheap? Or had there been some other reason?

He wished Emma Oldchester would go home to her husband. He had tried to persuade her but, for an apparently nervous, fragile creature, she was remarkably strong-willed.

‘Starting an art gallery, are we?’ said Heffernan when he entered the CID office.

Wesley smiled. ‘I thought a bit of art would raise the tone of the place.’

Heffernan glanced at Steve Carstairs, who was talking on the phone. ‘And let’s face it, Wes, things could do with a bit of improvement around here. I hear you’ve been to have a chat with Emma Oldchester.’

‘You heard right. I tried to persuade her to go home but she seems obsessed with the Hall. And of course she wants to clear her mother’s name.’

‘Morbid but understandable. You mentioned Clive Wellings?’

‘Of course. She said she’d think about it but I’m not holding my breath. And I’m not happy about Arbel Harford being at Gwen Madeley’s cottage. I think she could be in danger.’

‘Why? She was miles away when the Harfords were killed and she never even saw Evans.’

Wesley shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter. She might have seen something when she found the bodies and didn’t realise its significance at the time. Gwen Madeley was killed. ‘

‘Yes, but Gwen Madeley was on the spot when the Harfords died. And she knew Bleasdale, our chief suspect. Knew him rather well by all accounts. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was involved somehow - or at least saw more than she let on. From those pictures she painted, she

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must have been on the scene before Arbel arrived and called the police. She knew something and I reckon she was killed to keep her quiet. We’ve got to fmd what happened to Bleasdale after he left Yorkshire. What if he’s around here somewhere, right under our noses? What if Patrick Evans found him?’

Wesley scratched his head. ‘The trouble is, we know so little about Bleasdale. We haven’t even got a photograph; just a description that could fit half the male population of Devon.’

‘There’s no trace of Jeremy Elsham before the early Nineties. And Pandora mentioned he used to run some sort of garden centre.’

‘If he’s Bleasdale, Brenda Varney would have recognised him.’

‘Not if he’s changed his appearance, lost his accent.’

Wesley looked alarmed. ‘If Elsham is Bleasdale we’ve got to persuade Emma to leave the Hall.’

‘He’s refused to hypnotise her again. Perhaps he’s afraid of what she’ll remember. He didn’t know who she was when he first met her … ‘

‘But he does now. We’ve got to get her out of there.’

‘And persuade her to see Clive.’

Wesley nodded. Emma’s memories should be unlocked by a qualified professional who knew what he was doing. The thought of someone like Jeremy Elsham messing with people’s minds had always worried him. Now it was just a matter of getting Emma to see things their way.

‘Fancy a trip over the border to Cornwall tomorrow?’

‘What for?’

‘To see Jocasta Childs. She was with Arbel on the night of the murders and she was on Patrick Evans’ s visiting list. She probably won’t be able to tell us much but she might know some useful gossip.’

Heffernan grinned. He’d never been averse to a bit of gossip.

It wasn’t hard to get hold of Jocasta Mylcomb’s address

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from her local police station. There was a pregnant pause at the other end of the line when Wesley mentioned her name to the constable on duty, which made him ask whether she had a criminal record. The answer was no but he still sensed there was something. No doubt he’d soon find out what that something was.

After obtaining her phone number, he rang Jocasta Mylcomb, nee Childs, and asked when it would be convenient to visit. Her voice’ sounded guarded and a little slurred. And he sensed that she wasn’t exactly looking forward to her brush with the law.

When Pam Peterson heard the throaty noise of Neil’s car engine suddenly cut off outside the house, she rose from the comfort of the sofa. Neil was expected. She had even tidied up in the kitchen in anticipation of his arrival. She trotted into the hall, called up the stairs to Wesley and hovered in the doorway until Neil rang the bell.

When she opened the door she was struck by how tired Neillooked. She stood on tiptoe and gave him a kiss on theˇ cheek.

Neil looked bemused. ‘I’ll have to go away more often if this is the welcome 1 get. Wes about?’

‘He’s just putting Michael to bed. He’ll be down soon.’

Neil made for the living room. He was carrying a tattered leather briefcase which he placed on the coffee table after making himself comfortable.

Pam rushed to the kitchen to get a bottle of wine and three glasses just as Wesley appeared at the door.

‘I’ve brought the documents,’ Neil said as Wesley sat down beside him. ‘Just copies. The originals have been donated to the Annetown Settlement Museum.’ He took the papers from his briefcase and sat there quite still, staring at them. Wesley wondered what was coming.

‘I never told you about my exact relationship with Max, did I?’ he said after a long pause.

‘What do you mean?’

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‘Max and my gran knew each other in the war. They … Max was my real granddad.’

Wesley sat for a few moments, not knowing quite what reaction was expected. ‘Sorry he died before you could get to know him properly,’ seemed fitting.

Neil shrugged. ‘I’m just sorry that he never made it over to England. Gran really wanted to see him again.’

‘It’s a shame,’ was all Wesley could think of to say.

‘It’s funny to think of Max as family :- even though he was only involved briefly in my mother’s creation.’ He gave a bitter smile. ‘My mum never knew Granddad wasn’t her real father. Still doesn’t.’ He paused. ‘But I suppose he was her real father in away. He brought her up and did the sort of things dads do. The sort of things you do for your two.’

‘When I get the chance.’

Emma Oldchester popped unbidden into Wesley’s mind: her foster father Joe Harper’s obvious love for the daughter of his cousin, then tainted with the stain of murder. He and his wife had taken her in and cared for her devotedly, as if she was their own.