Cursed Inheritance (40 page)

Elsham turned away. ‘That’s a matter for the police, not me. Now, if you don’t mind … ‘

Before Emma could protest, there was a knock on the office door. Elsham shouted ‘Come’, and sat down behind the desk that stood between him and Emma like a defensive barrier.

Wesley Peterson entered the room followed by Gerry Heffernan, wearing the expression of suspicious scepticism he always assumed in Elsham’s presence.

‘We’d like a word with Mrs Oldchester. Your wife told us she was with you. If we could use your office,ˇ Mr Elsham. We won’t take long, I promise.’ Wesley smiled expectantly, not giving Elsham a chance .to argue. Elsham mumbled something about having a workshop to supervise and made himself scarce.

‘In my day the only workshops we had were connected with light engineering,’ said Gerry Heffernan, lowering himself heavily on to the soft leather chair that Elsham had just vacated. It was comfortable. He could have stayed there all day. ‘Well, sit down, love. And don’t look so scared. We don’t bite.’

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Emma Oldchester gave a weak smile as Wesley sat down beside her. His eyes were drawn to the dark portrait of the two men that hung behind the chief inspector’s head. He could have stared at those thin, hungry faces all day. There was something desperate about them; something sad.

Heffeman looked Emma in the eye. ‘Now, love, do you remember a lad called Dylan Madeley? He lived on the road to Neston about half a mile from the Hall and his sister was friendly with Arbel Harford.’

Emma hesitated then she nodded.

‘What can you tell us about him?’

She shuddered. ‘He used to tease me. And he used to shoot things. Once he shot a crow and held it over my face. I got blood on my dress and my mother told me off but I never said what happened.’ Her breathing quickened.

‘You seem to remember a lot.’ Wesley was rather surprised.

‘I’m starting to remember more now. It’s just … It’s just that night I don’t remember. I keep seeing flashes but … I know if Jeremy regressed me again … ‘

Wesley and Heffeman looked at each other. The chief inspector leaned forward. ‘Look, love, go home. Elsham won’t change his mind. There’s no point in staying.’

‘But I’ve got to know.’ She sounded like a pathetic child.

‘Let’s think about that another time, eh, love? When you’re feeling up to it maybe you could see that doctor I told you about. Your husband wants you home, you know that, don’t you? He’s worried about you.’

Emma bowed her head, as though she suddenly knew she had lost the fight. She looked at Gerry Heffeman: as her only hope of finding out the truth he looked rather unimpressive.

Wesley leaned forward. ‘Let us take you home, eh, Emma?’

‘No need. I’ve got my van,’ she muttered.

‘Do you want to ring your husband?’ Wesley picked up the telephone receiver and offered it to her. She took it with the resigned air of a woman who has no choice.

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‘Well, that’s one problem out of the way,’ Heffeman said as they walked to the car.

Wesley was deep in thought. ‘Did you notice the ring on Elsham’s right hand? Don’t you think it looks like the one Armley was wearing in that portrait?’

‘One signet ring looks very much like another,’ Heffeman replied, putting a damper on Wesley’s budding theory.

‘When’s Gwen Madeley’s funeral?’ Wesley asked as he reached the gates of the Hall.

‘Monday. Dylan’ll be there. Did you hear what Emma said about him shooting things and about the dead crow?’

But Wesley didn’t seem to have heard. ‘I want a word with Arbel Harford,’ he said. ‘She’s staying till after the funeral. ‘

‘Still at the cottage?’

‘Mmm. It seems she’s Gwen’s executor and she’s sorting out some of her things.’

‘Her and Gwen must have been closer than we thought.’

‘Or perhaps there’s no one else to do it. Dylan’s hardly up to the job.’

Wesley drove the short distance to Gwen Madeley’s cottage. Arbel’s car was parked outside. When Heffeman rang the doorbell she greeted them with a sad smile.

‘Come in, please. To tell the truth I’m glad to have some company. I keep coming across things Gwen kept from when we were children. I feel so silly bursting into tears every five minutes but … ‘ She took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose before leading them into the living room, now filled with boxes containing the relics of Gwen Madeley’s life.

‘I’ve asked a gallery in Tradmouth to deal with her paintings. It’s all the personal stuff that’s the hardest to know what to do with. Tea?’

Gerry Heffeman ignored the question. ‘We’ve been talking to Dylan Madeley. Why were the police never told that he tried to rape you?’

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Arbel’s hand went to her mouth.

‘What happened exactly? Take your time.’ Wesley spoke gently, giving his boss a warning look.

Arbel took a deep breath and began massaging the back of her neck as though to relieve some tension there. ‘I’d just got home from boarding school. I was in the garden and he said Gwen was waiting for me in one of the outhouses. I thought nothing of it and followed him there. Only she wasn’t there and he came in behind me and closed the door and … Look, do I have to go into all this? It’s something I’d rather forget.’

‘Please, Mrs Jameston. It’s important.’

‘When I started to scream Dylan tried to make light of it, said he was just larking around but … I told my father and he went mad. He dealt with it himself. We didn’t want the police involved. I just wanted to forget it ever happened. That’s it really.’

‘And how did Dylan react?’

‘He was furious with me for telling on him and he made all sorts of threats. He scared me, if you must know.’

‘But you stayed friendly with Gwen. ‘

‘Nobody can choose their relatives, can they? Dylan left home straight after that and I never saw him again.’

Wesley said nothing for a few moments. ‘This isn’t how Dylan tells it. He said that you manipulated Gwen. He said you turned his family against him. He denies he ever touched you. Says you made it all up.’

Arbellooked hurt and puzzled. ‘That’s absolute rubbish. He’s lying. If you don’t believe me ask Brenda Varney: he tried the same thing with her.’

‘We have asked her.’

‘And?’

‘She says he tried it on with her but he gave up when she told him to get lost. She doesn’t remember anything between Dylan and you.’

‘It wasn’t something I wanted to become common knowledge.’

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‘I saw another old friend of yours too,’ Wesley said. ,Jocasta Childs.’

Arbel tilted her head to one side and assumed an expression of polite interest. ‘Really? How is she?’

‘Patrick Evans went to see her.’

She looked surprised. ‘Can’t think why.’

‘You were staying with her when your family died. ‘

‘That’s right.’

‘But you weren’t with her that night, were you?’

Arbellooked puzzled. ‘I was. We went to a party.’

‘She went home and you stayed.’

Arbel blushed. ‘Well, 1 meant to go home with Jo but 1 met this boy and 1 ended up staying till dawn. I drove to Devon the next morning. Does it make a difference?’

Wesley took the photograph Jocasta had given him from his pocket. ‘Recognise anyone?’

Arbel took it and stared for a few moments. ‘I think this was taken that night. That’s Jo and … ‘

‘The names are on the back.’

She turned the picture over. ‘Greg, that’s right. His name was Greg. We all look so happy, don’t we?’

Wesley looked into her eyes and knew what she was thinking. If only she’d known what was coming a few hours later. He took the photo back. Arbel had been eighteen. She’d met a boy and decided to stay on at a party that went on till dawn while her friend took a taxi home. Nothing sinister there.

The tea was fmished but Wesley felt strangely reluctant to leave. There was something about Arbel’s company that he found appealing. He had one more question to ask her, although he feared it would be a futile one. ‘I noticed in the portrait Gwen did of Nigel Armley that he was wearing a signet ring on the middle finger of his right hand. When 1 looked at the crime scene pictures, he was wearing the ring on his little finger. Did you notice what finger he usually wore it on?’

Arbellooked puzzled. ‘Sorry. 1 don’t remember. I don’t

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think I ever noticed a ring. Sorry.’

‘Jocasta told us you kept a photograph of Nigel Armley at school.’

Arbel looked embarrassed. ‘I don’t really remember, to be honest. I might have done.’

Wesley glanced at Heffernan, who was drinking his tea noisily in the corner. ‘I know this seems a strange thing to ask but is there any chance that Jeremy Elsham up at the Hall could be either Victor Bleasdale or Nigel Armley?’

Heffernan almost choked on his tea and Arbel sat there, astonished. ‘I don’t know what happened to Vie but Nigel’s dead, Inspector. He was shot. How could … ?’

‘But is there any resemblance?’

She seemed confused. ‘I’ve only caught a brief glimpse of Elsham. I don’t really know. What’s this all about anyway? Nigel’s dead. I saw him there. He was dead.’

Gerry Heffernan stood up. ‘We’ll leave you to it, love. We can see you’ve got a lot to do. We’ll see you at the funeral, eh.’

He marched out and Wesley had no choice but to follow.

Wesley managed to set off for home earlier than usual that night and as he drove a sudden thought entered his head and buzzed around like an annoying wasp. What if Arbel took it into her head to confront Elsham? If she suspected that he had slaughtered her family, who knows how she might react. Maybe he had been deceived by her calm exterior. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned his vague suspicions.

When he arrived home, Pam was busy preparing for her return to school after the weekend. He found her sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by a sea of charts, reports and books. Michael, she told him, was at a friend’s and Amelia was sleeping upstairs. She made no mention of food so Wesley began to search the freezer and cupboards. But he found it impossible to plan a meal while his mind was on the. deaths of Patriek Evans and Gwen Madeley and the safety of Emma Oldchester, who, hopefully, was home by

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now, safe with her husband. He’d sent Trish round to reassure them both.

When the doorbell rang, Pam stayed where she was. ‘Forgot to tell you. Neil said he’d pop round.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’ Wesley muttered under his breath. Interested though he was in what had become of Edmund Selbiwood who had sailed off to found one of America’s first colonies, he didn’t feel he could give Neil his full attention. If it wasn’t for his guilt about neglecting Pam he would probably still be at work. The realisation horrified him as he strolled into the hall.

When he opened the door, Neil bounced in, all trace of jet lag disappeared. ‘I’m on the way to the Tradmouth Arms,’ he announced. ‘Fancy coming?’

Wesley smiled sadly. ‘Another time maybe.’

‘Suit yourself. Had a chance to look at those documents yet? Bit of a mystery involved.’

‘I’ve had a quick glance at them. But I’ve been rather busy and…’

‘Pam in?’

‘She’s working. She’s back at school next week.’

‘Everything OK?’

‘Fine.’

Neil hesitated for a second. ‘We’re starting a dig near Neston in a couple of weeks: they’re building a new extension at Tradington Hall and they want us to see if there’s anything down there.’ .

‘Good,’ was all Wesley could think of to say.

‘Take care, eh?’ Neil turned away and walked slowly back to his car.

Wesley walked into the kitchen, where Pam still had her head buried in her paperwork. He put a hand on her shoulder. She looked up and smiled weakly. A do not disturb smile.

He poured himself a glass of wine from the bottle Pam had opened earlier, went into the living room and switched the TV on.

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*

‘I didn’t want to come home.’

Trish Walton looked at Emma and tried to hide her exasperation. ‘DCI Heffernan thinks it’s best if you’re away from the Hall. And if .you want we can arrange for you to see that doctor.’

She had been about to say psychiatrist but she had stopped herself in time. She didn’t want to say anything that might upset Emma Oldchester.

‘Everything OK?’ Barry Oldchester poked his head around the door. Trish could tell he was nervous, like an expectant father reluctant to intrude on ‘women’s business’.

‘Fine,’ Trish replied cheerily.

Oldchester entered the room and put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. Trish noticed that she stiffened, as though his touch was unwelcome. ‘You can go if you like,’ he said. ‘I’ll look after Em. She’ll be OK now.’

‘I’m sure she will, Mr Oldchester. But…’

‘I’m capable of taking care of my own wife.’ He looked at Emma proprietorially and Trish was struck by the fact that their relationship seemed more like that of father and daughter rather than husband and wife. And it wasn’t only the age difference.

Trish wavered for a moment. ‘If you’re sure.’ She picked up her bag and stood up. ‘If you’re worried about anything at all, ring the number I gave you.’

With his assurance that he’d watch his wife every minute of the night and day ringing in her ears, Trish left the house, rather relieved that she wouldn’t have to stay any longer in that claustrophobic room.

Monday morning looked promising; a bright Devon spring day with clear blue skies and sunshine. The weather would be fine for Gwen Madeley’s journey to her grave.

Gerry Heffernan hated funerals. Each one he attended reminded him of the worst one of all when he had buried his wife, Kathy, in Tradmouth cemetery on the hill over-

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looking the town. Gwen Madeley was to be interred in that same cemetery, bringing back the old, bad memories. He had left Wesley alone for a few minutes while he visited Kathy’s grave. But, as he stood staring at her name on the headstone, he felt guilty somehow. There was nothing he could do for her; he hadn’t even remembered to bring flowers. So after picking up a crisp packet that had blown on to the grave and stuffing it into his pocket, he walked away and joined Wesley at Gwen’s grave side , his face a neutral mask. He wished it was over.