Cursed Inheritance (44 page)

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last favour for a dead childhood friend and had almost paid with her life. Rachel thought she deserved a medal for ridding the world of the likes of Dylan Madeley but she tried to preserve her professional neutrality and said nothing.

Anthony Jameston was travelling from London to be with her, bringing a high-profile solicitor with him. Rachel found herself hoping that no charges would be brought, especially in view of what Arbel had been through in 1985.

Arbel Harford was the victim here.

As far as Gerry Heffernan was concerned, the murderer of Patrick Evans, Gwen Madeley - and probably the Harrord family too - was dead. He even put forward a theory that Nigel Armley had been suffering from amnesia brought on by shock when he travelled to Yorkshire. Then, as soon as heˇ remembered, he had returned to accuse Dylan, who promptly killed him and buried him in the woods. It was possible, of course. But Wesley wasn’t altogether convinced.

At three thirty Steve Carstairs deposited a computer printout on Wesley’s desk: Gwen Madeley’s bank account. When a report came in from Forensics, he set it aside to deal with later.

They had managed to get prints off Jeremy Elsham’s glass and when they’d been put through the computer, the results made interesting reading. Wesley smiled to himself. A small triumph on a rainy afternoon. But the phone call he was waiting for still hadn’t come and at five thirty he made for home, hoping he would hear from Jocasta Mylcomb the next day.

It was disappointing that the one day he arrived home at a civilised time, Pam was out. The note left on the kitchen table said that she’d taken the children to her mother’s and they would be staying for tea. Wesley screwed up the note and threw it with some force towards the bin.

He was surprised to hear the doorbell ring. He hadn’t

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been expecting visitors. But when he opened the door and saw Neil grinning on the threshold, he felt relieved that he wouldn’t have to eat a meal for one alone.

Food was at the forefront of Neil’s mind and once a takeaway pizza was ordered the pair made themselves comfortable. Neil had even brought some cans of beer with him.

‘Pam said she was going to Della’s,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d come and keep you company.’

‘Glad you did,’ Wesley said, wondering why Neil always seemed to know more about Pam’s movements than he did.

‘Hannah emailed me today.’ There was a faraway look in Neil’s eyes when he mentioned Hannah’s name that made Wesley feel unexpectedly relieved. He hadn’t been conscious of being worried about Neil’s closeness to Pam. But perhaps it had always been there, tucked away at the back of his mind. Hannah Gotleib had been a godsend.

‘What did she say?’ Wesley asked, taking a long swig of beer. He needed something to relax him after the day he’d had.

‘Professor Keller sent a sample of some of the bones from the Annetown site off for analysis. They were analysed using a plasma mass spectrometer; state of the art equipment that can detect the tiniest traces of elements. It was unlikely that anything could be detected after four hundred years but Keller knows this toxicologist who uses a very sophisticated testing technique.’ He paused, as though he was about to impart some world-shattering piece of information.

‘Well?’

‘Did you notice anything strange in the early Annetown records I gave you?’

Wesley didn’t answer. The truth was, his mind had been on work and he hadn’t been paying that much attention.

‘Ever arrested a poisoner?’

‘Can’t say it’s an everyday occurrence.’

‘There would have been a lot of arsenic lying around on

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board the Nicholas and in the early Annetown settlement. Ratsbane was used to control vermin. And women used arsenic then as a beauty product. They’d have a little taste of the stuff every so often to make their skin fashionably pale. Mad, but there you are. Things people do for fashion.’

‘And?’ Wesley wished he’d come to the point.

‘Look at the symptoms: bloody flux - diarrhoea to you and me, mad fevers, bruising and swelling, peeling of skin. I think people were being poisoned with arsenic. Two of the skeletons tested - adult males - contained traces. And it couldn’t have been absorbed from the environment because all the others were clear.’

Wesley sat up straight. The inner policeman was taking over. ‘So who was the poisoner?’

‘Look at the records and see if you come up with the same answer as I did.’

Wesley looked at his watch and took hold of Neil’s photocopied sheets, wondering why he was spending his leisure time solving a crime that was no concern of his.

First thing the next morning Wesley wandered into the office, feeling the effects of the beer he’d consumed with Neil the night before. His mouth was dry and he had a slight, nagging headache but he tried to put this temporary discomfort out of his mind when Rachel caught his eye.

‘You’ve had a call from a lady. Name of Jocasta. I said you’d ring her back as soon as you came in.’

‘Thanks.’ As he took the sheet of paper from her their fingers touched and Wesley moved his away rapidly.

Somehow he hadn’t expected to hear from Jocasta Mylcomb again. He picked up the phone and dialled her number and, to his relief, when she answered she sounded completely sober. She began their conversation with a litany of complaints against her neighbour and his anti-social hedge and Wesley listened patiently until eventually she came to the point. When he finally managed to put the

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receiver down he bad the feeling that the information she’d just provided could be the last piece in the jigsaw.

He made a call to the Met and when he’d finished he sat quite still for a few moments, staring into space. A picture was emerging. And if the answer from London was the one he expected, it would all begin to make sense.

The consultant in charge of Emma Oldchester’s case insisted that she wasn’t well enough to be moved just yet. But he agreed that Dr Wellings, his colleague from the hospital’s psychiatric department, could see the patient as long as she wasn’t upset. Clive Wellings agreed readily, almost enthusiastically. From what Gerry Heffernan told him, Emma Oldchester’s case was an interesting one. And the sooner he saw her, the sooner she would be out of danger.

Emma herself said that she wanted Gerry Heffernan and his colleague, DI Peterson, to be present and Clive Wellings agreed to this unconventional arrangement.

Clive Wellings was a small, quiet man with a balding head and a neatly trimmed beard. He wasn’t the sort of man you’d notice in a crowd but his unassuming manner inspired confidences. He sat by Emma’s bed, speaking softly, taking her back gently to that dreadful day, constantly reassuring her that she had nothing to be afraid of.

Wesley and Heffernan sat motionless in the corner of the room as they listened to the small child’s voice reciting the dreadful facts, describing the scene.

‘Where are you, Emma?’ Clive asked.

‘Going upstairs.’

‘Why?’

There was an awkward silence. Then the little girl’s voice answered. ‘I want to see the doll’s house. Mummy’s in the kitchen with the radio on loud so she can’t hear me.’

‘Why don’t you want her to hear you?’

The little girl sounded coy, as though she knew she was

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doing something naughty. ‘She thinks I’m in bed. She told me not to go up there.’

‘Where?’

‘The old nursery. 1 want to see the big doll’s house. I’m not allowed to play with it. Only look.’

‘So you’re sneaking up to the old nursery? Aren’t you afraid someone might catch you?’

‘Mr and Mrs Harford are in their bedroom and the others are in the drawing room. 1 can hear them talking.’

Clive brought her forward in time half an hour. ‘Where are you now, Emma?’

This time Emma spoke in a whisper. ‘Behind the big chair in the hall. He can’t see me. I’ve got to tell Mummy.’ The small voice was desperate, terrified.

‘What are you doing there?’

‘I heard someone coming so 1 hid. He dragged Mr Bleasdale into the hall. Mr Bleasdale was asleep … or dead. 1 don’t know. Then there were two big bangs. Then someone shouted and there were more bangs. I’m scared.’

‘Can you see what’s going on?’

‘No. 1 don’t want to move in case he sees me.’

‘It’s all right, Emma. You’re safe if you stay where you are.’

‘He’s on the stairs. 1 can hear them creaking. He’s going upstairs. There’s voices. Mr and Mrs Harford are shout-ing.’

‘OK, Emma. Just keep still. You’re going to be all right.’

Emma shuddered and froze.

‘It’s later now. He’s gone. You can come out now. What can you see?’

Emma started sobbing and breathing rapidly. ‘Mr Bleasdale’s got no face. Blood. Lots of blood everywhere. And they’re lying there with their eyes open but they’re not moving. There’s blood on my feet. It’s on my nightie.’ She became more agitated, kicking the imaginary blood off her feet with noises of disgust.

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Clive brought her forward in time again, assuring her once more that everything was going to be all right.

‘Where are you now, Emma? Are you still in the hall?’

Her breathing became shallow, terrified. ‘No, I’m in the pantry. I’m hiding,’ she whispered. ‘Mummy’s not moving.’

Then Clive asked the six-Million-dollar question, gently, calmly. ‘Is someone else there?’

‘Yes. He’s got a gun. He’s switched off the radio so I can’t make a sound. I’ve got to be quiet as a mouse.’ She put her fingers to her lips.

‘Who’s holding the gun, Emma?’

‘Catriona’s boyfriend. Mr Armley. He looks funny. He’s wearing the clothes Mr Bleasdale wears in the garden. I thought he was Mr Bleasdale at first.’

‘Was it Mr Armley who shot the people, Emma?’

‘Why isn’t-Mummy moving? Why won’t she wake up?’ Tears began to run down her cheeks.

‘It’s all right, Emma, you’re safe. Be a brave girl now.’ He waited a few moments before speaking again. ‘It’s light now. It’s morning. What’s happening? Is Mr Armley still there?’

‘They’re in the dining room. I can hear them talking.’ Her voice was weak, barely audible.

‘Are you still in the pantry?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I, came out when he’d gone but Mummy wouldn’t move. Then he came back. And she came.’

‘It’s all right, Emma. What did she do?’

‘She had crows. Dead ones. I hate crows.’

‘What did she do with the crows?’

‘She put one on the back door. The feathers fell off on to the floor. There’s lots of blood. Blood everywhere.’ She paused. ‘Then she kissed him. Proper kissing.’

‘Who is she, Emma?’ Clive asked gently.

Tears streamed down Emma Oldchester’s face as she whispered the name.

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I fear I am near death. Such pain, such weakness as the body cannot endure overwhelms me and I have barely strength to write. But I confess now that my father took the blame for my sin, saying he ended the life of that girl when it was I, yielding to base lust, who took her against her will and strangled the life from her, burying her body near the river bank. And for lust and desire for Penelope I shot Isaac Morton at her behest. The curse pronounced upon my innocent father and our house has come upon me. In my agony I pray for forgiveness.

Set down by Edmund Selbiwood, Gentleman, who awaits death and hopes for God’s mercy.

Extract from Annetown Records: 12 August 1606 As President of our Council Captain

Radford was honourably buried having

all the ordnance of the fort shot off in

many vollies. 15 August 1606 Lord Cos lake is chosen President of

our Council. 2 October 1606 Lord Cos lake is married unto

Penelope, widow of Master Edmund

Selbiwood at Annetown this day.

Penelope, Lady Coslake did die in 18 July 1607

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childbed this day and is honourably

buried.

Anthony Jameston blocked the way. ‘Is it necessary to upset my wife again, Inspector? It was a clear case of self-defence.’

‘I’m afraid we need to clear up one or two things.’

Jameston stood his ground defensively while Wesley waited. This would be a battle of wills. It was a full minute before Jameston stood aside and allowed him and Gerry Heffernan into the room. Arbel was seated at the dressing table, brushing her smooth brown hair and when they entered she twisted round, frowning.

‘I told the police it was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt Dylan. I was scared. He’s always scared me. I pushed him and … You’re not going to charge me, are you?’ she asked in a whisper, close to tears.

‘We’ve not come about Dylan Madeley, Mrs Jameston. I’ve. just been talking to a colleague at the Met. ‘

Arbel’s frown deepened. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Patrick Evans left a list of people he wanted to interview about the murder of your family. There was one name that puzzled us-a name that hadn’t cropped up in the enquiry. You say you spent the night your family were killed with a friend of Jocasta Childs’ s brother, Guy.’

‘You make it sound so sordid. I didn’t spend the night with hitn like you mean. We just talked. And in view of what happened, we never got round to seeing each other again. I’ve told you this already.’

‘As luck would have it, Guy Childs has kept in touch with this man and was able to provide us with his current address.’ He smiled. ‘Gregory Parkes remembers that party very well. It’s not every day you chat up a girl only to hear that the next day she’s become embroiled in a notorious murder case. He’s made a statement.’

Arbel raised her eyebrows. ‘Really.’

‘Patrick Evans got there before us, of course. He traced

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Jocasta and she wrote to her brother in Australia but, unfortunately, she’s only just had the reply. You see, Evans knew he was on to something. He just had to check it out. But he never got the chance.’

Arbellooked him in the eye. ‘I don’t see what this Greg Parkes could possibly tell you. He was just someone I met at a party. He hardly knew me.’