Cursed Inheritance (4 page)

Pandora brought Dodgson to the office first. He sat down on the edge of his seat, twisting the gold ring on his left little fmger round and round. He was in his forties with thick brown hair that showed no sign of grey and a deep, well-modulated voice that any Shakespearean actor would

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be proud to own. Somehow Rachel suspected he would have been more comfortable in a suit than in the snowy white T-shirt and expensively faded jeans he wore. And she was certain she’d seen him before but couldn’t think where it was.

Dodgson’s account of events fitted exactly with Elsham’s but, although the hand that signed the statement was steady and the voice clear and confident, his failure to make eye contact made Rachel suspect that he was hiding something.

But if Dodgson was nervous he hid it very well. Almost like a professional. Perhaps he was an actor, Rachel thought. Perhaps that’s why his face seemed familiar.

She caught Steve’s eye. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen him before somewhere. ‘

Before Steve could reply, there was a knock on the office door. Pandora opened it and stepped aside to let in the next lucky contestant.

‘Ms Jones?’ Rachel asked as the girl strode confidently into the office. Her scraped-back ponytail accentuated the sharpness of her features and Rachel’ s first thought was that she had been too heavy on the make-up.

But the girl’s wide eyes were focused on Steve Carstairs, whose mouth had fallen open.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘I could ask you the same thing,’ she replied boldly.

Rachel, watching Steve’s face, reckoned that he looked terrified.

When Emma Oldchester heard her husband’s key in the front door, she rushed out of the spare bedroom where she worked on her doll’s houses and hurtled down the stairs to meet him.

She waited for the door to open, holding her breath. She could feel her hands shaking and she clenched them by her sides.

Barry Oldchester stepped into the hall and when he saw his wife waiting at the bottom of the stairs he smiled.

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‘Hello, love,’ he said as he put his bag of tools down on the floor where it landed with a metallic clatter. ‘I finished early. The woman in Stokeworthy only needed a tap washer replacing. I’m out later though; central heating on the blink . just outside Whitely; woman won’t be in till after four.’ He leaned forward and gave Emma a kiss on the cheek. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’

Without a word Emma turned and made for the kitchen.

‘You OK, love?’ Barry followed her, concerned. He sensed something wasn’t right. A stocky five feet eight inches tall with a shock of’sandy hair, Barry was a well-meaning, if unimaginative man. He had met Emma when he had serviced her parents’ central heating boiler and had been entranced by her long blond hair, her pale blue eyes, her pretty heart-shaped face and her quiet vulnerability. She had an air of untouched innocence which at first had excited and aroused him. But later, when he had discovered the deep damage beneath her placid mask, he had begun to treat her almost as an invalid. More a sickly child than a wife,

‘Of course I’m OK,’ she said unconvincingly. She filled the kettle and felt her hands trembling.

Barry put a protective arm around her shoulder. ‘How did you get on at that craft fair in Neston?’

Emma shook her head. ‘I had a headache this morning. It went after a while so I just worked on one of the houses. I had another Internet order from someone in Birmingham. And there’s another fair on Thursday.’ .

‘Good.’ Barry was only too aware that Emma’s houses made them a good profit. And they needed every penny they could get. He was keen to start a family, sooner rather than later. He was fifteen years Emma’ s senior and his mum said they should get a move on.

But he was reluctant to put pressure on Emma. He had never forgotten the words her father, Joe Harper, had said to him on their wedding day. They were etched on his mind, always there. Like a barrier between them. ‘Look after her. She’s seen things in her life that nobody should

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have to see so just be patient with her.’ Barry hadn’t understood then and Joe had made no effort to explain. But later, Emma’s late mother, Linda, thought he should know the truth. Sometimes he wished she’d never told him.

The kettle had boiled and Barry took over, putting the teabags in the pot and pouring the boiling water over them.

‘My dad came round today. Just for a cup of tea.’

Barry glanced at her nervously. ‘Oh yes?’

Emma took a deep breath. It was best to get it over with. ‘I want to go on one of those healing courses they run at Potwoolstan Hall. ‘

Barry looked alarmed. ‘Why? Why there?’

‘You know why.’ She looked at her husband and saw the fear in his eyes.

‘It might make things worse, raking it all up again. It’s a load of nonsense what they do at that place. And have you seen how much it costs?’

Emma said nothing.

‘I don’t want you to go. And 1 don’t want you to see that man.’ He grabbed her wrist and held it tight, looking into her frightened eyes. Then he released his grip and began to stroke her cheek. ‘He’d only upset you. Has he rung today?’ .

‘No.’

A smile played on Barry’s lips. ‘I didn’t think he would.’

Emma looked at him. There was something in the way he’d spoken that worried her. ‘Why?’

But Barry Oldchester poured the tea in silence as Emma stared out of the window .

..

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As we were anchored, Captain Barton broke the seal upon the box and the orders were read. They named a Council of eight men - Lord Coslake, Master Richard Smith, Captain John Radford, Master Isaac Morton, Master Fulke Oldfield, Master Henry Barras, Master Christopher Heath and Master Henry Jennings - and we must choose a President who shall govern with the Council.

We landed all our men and some were set to work upon the fortification, and others to watch and guard. The first night of our landing there came some Savages, sailing close to us. Yet it is not the Savages we fear so much as the Spanish who would conquer this land for their King and their faith.

Master Joshua Morton, the younger brother of Master Isaac, is much occupied by the building and in the evening he favours the playing of card games with other gentlemen so that his wife is often alone. There are many strawberries and other fruits unknown to us and the woods are full of cedar and cypress trees. Mistress Morton fell and hurt. her ankle while gathering strawberries and I carried her back to the safety of the settlement. She was as light as a bird in my arms. Her husband seemed not pleased at my presumption.

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Set down by Master Edmund Selbiwood, Gentleman,

at Annetown this fifteenth day of July 1605.

It was almost two thirty when Wesley and Heffernan returned to the station. Wesley was looking forward to a cup of tea and half an hour spent gathering his thoughts about the man in the river, but he spotted Steve Carstajrs swaggering across the office towards his desk. Steve’s touch was the opposite of delicate, his chief talent being the building of fruitful relationships with an unappealing variety of informants. He seemed to have a rapport with the criminal classes, which didn’t altogether surprise Wesley.

‘How did you get on at Potwoolstan Hall?’ Wesley asked.

Steve thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘Some old bag had cash and a ring nicked from her handbag. She’d left it in her bedroom. Stupid old cow. There’s some funny people in that place.’

‘What’s the setup?’

Steve was about to open his mouth when Rachel appeared in the office doorway. ‘Has Steve told you about the theft?’

Steve shot her a resentful glance. If that’s how she wanted to play it, he’d let her take over. It would save him the effort of explaining. He slunk back to his desk and pretended to study a witness statement.

Wesley turned to Rachel. ‘He started to. Well?’

‘When we arrived we were met by a man called Elsham who called himself the “facilitator” - probably a twenty-two carat charlatan but good at the old charm. Anyway, it seems this healing centre,’ the words were said with heavy irony, ‘specialises in something called regression therapy. The guests - or Beings as they’re known - are hypnotised and taken back to their childhood, and even back to former lives. If you left that Elsham in a field of sheep he’d have them fleeced in two minutes flat.’ Rachel was at her judgemental best, her mouth set in a hard line.

‘Not a man you’d trust with your life savings then?’ He

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smiled and she smiled back, the ice melting. ‘Was the victim’s room locked?’

‘The guests aren’t allowed to lock their doors. House rule. According to the vic.tim, the stuff was pinched while they were all having breakfast. We’ve interviewed everyone who wasn’t at breakfast.’ She suddenly grinned wickedly, as though she had a juicy secret she was longing to impart.

‘What is it?’

Rachel looked over her shoulder at Steve. He appeared to be engrossed in paperwork but she was taking no chances. She walked out of the office into the corridor, motioning Wesley to follow her. He obeyed, full of curiosity.

‘There was a girl there called Serena Jones,’ she began when they were out of earshot. ‘Steve met her at a club in Morbay and they’ve been out together a few times. He got the shock of his life when he saw her there. Somehow she didn’t seem the type you’d usually find in a place like that so I asked Steve what he knew about her, which turned out to be very little.’

‘You think she might have something to do with these thefts?’

‘Not sure. But she looked as if she was hiding something. ‘

‘Have you checked whether anyone at Potwoolstan Hall was staying at the other places? The health spa or the … ?’

‘Yes, I’ve been through the lists but there’s nothing obvious. Mind you, there’s nothing to stop the thief using a different identity in each place, is there?’

‘So, apart from Serena Jones, are there any other likely suspects?’

‘The man staying in the room adjoining Mrs Jeffries’s wasn’t at breakfast: claimed he had a stomachache. It checked out: he asked Mrs Elsham for some indigestion tablets. There was a Mrs Carmody who’s in a wheelchair. Her room’s on the ground floor and the place has no lift.

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She usually has breakfast in her room.’

‘So we should probably concentrate on Ms Jones and your man with stomachache. What was his name?’

‘Charles Dodgson.’

Wesley smiled.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Charles Dodgson was the real name of Lewis Carroll, the man who wrote Alice in Wonderland. Perhaps someone’s trying to lead us down a rabbit hole. You’d better run a check on him. Did you ask if you could search the rooms of the three who weren’t at breakfast?’

‘Yes. Dodgson and Carmody were keen to cooperate but Serena Jones got a bit uppity about it. We didn’t find anything suspicious, of course.’

‘Pity. I would have liked to get this one cleared up.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m going to the Tradmouth Castle Hotel to see if they have a name for our corpse in the river. The boss wanted to come with me but the chief super’s called him to a budget meeting.’

‘Bet he’s pleased about that,’ Rachel said with a laugh.

He called across the room. ‘Are you busy, Trish?,

Rachel gave her a sharp look. ‘Can you run a check on a man called Charles Dodgson on the PNC?’

‘I’ll do it now, Sarge,’ Trish said sadly. She turned and wandered back down the corridor. Wesley knew that Rachel had just taken advantage of her rank. And he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. There had been times when the . prospect of an afternoon alone with Rachel Tracey, even in the course of work, would have excited him. But he had put all that behind him now. He thought of Pam and felt a pang of guilt.

‘Fancy coming to the Tradmouth Castle?’

Rachel didn’t need asking twice. She went into the office to fetch her coat.

The Tradmouth Castle wasn’t generally regarded as the smartest hotel in town. It was the comfortable, slightly old-

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fashioned home of chesterfields and hunting prints, the natural habitat of the mayor and the Rotary Club. Professional men held their annual dinners there and middle-aged, middle-class men took their wives to eat there on their wedding anniversaries. They took their mistresses elsewhere. Wesley had never frequented the place and he strongly suspected that Gerry Heffernan hadn’t either. Rachel, however, announced that she had once been to a Young Farmers’ dinner dance there. Wesley was glad that somebody knew their way around.

The young woman behind the reception desk stared at them like a rabbit caught in car headlights when they produced their warrant cards and Wesley guessed that, as she obviously wasn’t a master criminal, she probably hadn’t encountered many real police officers at close quarters before. She was a thin, nervous-looking girl in her late teens and her brown hair was scraped back from her face, making her brown eyes enormous against her pale skin. Wesley made a special effort to put the girl at her ease before she chewed her ragged fingernails down too far and did herself a serious injury.

‘It’s just routine,’ he said. ‘Nothing to worry about.’ He knew he sounded like a doctor reassuring a terrified patient that a potentially unpleasant medical procedure wouldn’t hurt a bit: as his parents were both doctors he concluded that he’d probably. picked up the bedside manner by osmosis. The tactic seemed to work. The girl. stopped chewing at her nails and visibly relaxed.

‘You’ll have to see the manager. It was him who rang the police. ‘

Wesley glanced at Rachel, who looked as puzzled as he felt.

‘The manager called the police?’

, ‘Only a few minutes ago. We didn’t expect you to be so quick. I mean you hear about the police not turning up for hours and … ‘ The girl’s voice trailed off. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here,’ she added feebly before picking up the phone.

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She looked at the instrument, consulted a sheet of paper then pressed three buttons carefully. She was definitely new to the job, Wesley thought.