The Funeral Boat (15 page)

the sun.

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‘Found any more skeletons, Carl?’

‘No … nothing. I filled in that hole. Your mate said it was okay and I was scared of losing a sheep down there. They’re not too bright, sheep. Get into all sorts of trouble if you don’t watch’ em.’ He leaned on his spade and wiped the beads of sweat off his brow, watching Wesley and Johnson warily. ‘Is that all you’ve come for? To see if any more bones have turned up?’ There was a hint of anxiety in his voice, and Wesley wondered if Carl Palister was hiding something.

‘1 wanted to know if you and your mother have noticed anyone suspicious hanging around. There’s been a prowler reported up at Waters House … seems to run off in this direction when he’s spotted. Well?’

Carl Palister studied his spade for a few seconds. ‘The drive to Waters House runs just the other side of the stream. Anyone can go that way. Doesn’t mean they have to come on our land.’

‘Have you seen anything?’

Carl shook his head.

‘Is you mother in?’

Carl looked up. For a split second Wesley saw panic on his face; then the mask of boredom was swiftly replaced. ‘She’s somewhere about. I’ll fetch her.’

He began to walk towards the house and the two policemen followed. Carl turned round. ‘There’s no need for you to come. I’ll bring her out. Okay?’

‘That told us, Sarge,’ whispered lohnson as Carl disappeared towards the dilapidated house. They stood watching as Maggie Palister walked towards them, arms folded defensively, to the unmusical accompaniment of distant hens, clucking angrily. Their feeding time had been disturbed. Carl followed her, looking from left to right as if he suspected there were snipers in the bushes that lined the field.

She looked Wesley up and down and squared up to him, arms akimbo. ‘Our Carl says there’s prowler up at Waters House. What’s that got to do with us?’

Wesley mustered all his charm. ‘We just wondered if you’d seen anyone suspicious, Mrs Palister. The prowler was seen to run off in this direction.’

Maggie seemed to consider the question carefully. Then she nodded. ‘Come to think of it there’s been a car parked just next to

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the entrance to their drive. Just on the main road. Carl’s noticed it a few times when he’s been out to the village in the evening, haven’t you, Carl?’

Carl nodded, still wary. ‘Big black car it was.’

‘Make?’

‘Didn’t notice. It was just a big black car.’

‘Saloon? Hatchback? New? Old?’

‘Saloon. Didn’t look old. Not anything flashy like a Roller or a Jag. Just something ordinary … Japanese maybe or a Ford. I didn’t take much notice.’

‘And when did you see it?’

‘It’s been parked there a few nights now.’

‘If you see it again will you ring us … or at least write down the registration number for us: it’d be a great help.’ Wesley handed him his card. Carl studied it for a moment then stuck it in the back pocket of his cut-off jeans that served as shorts.

‘I don’t see why he has to do your dirty work for you,’ said Maggie, hostile.

‘Call it self-protection, Mrs Palister. Who knows, this man might come prowling round your house next if he’s not caught.’ Wesley gave a quick businesslike smile and nodded to Johnson. It was time to leave. But he had one last parting shot. ‘By the way, have you heard about the treasure that was found on this land in the last century?’

This got a reaction. Maggie Palister’s eyes lit up greedily, and Carl thrust his spade into the ground and stood up straight. ‘What treasure?’ asked Maggie.

‘Neil Watson and I had a word with Mrs Crick who used to have the post office in the Village. She said a hoard of treasure was found by the man who owned Waters House in the nineteenth century … a man called Peacock. It was buried somewhere near here.’

‘I’ve not heard nothing about that,’ said Carl, surprised. This was certainly news to the Palisters.

‘You never know, Carl, there might be some more about. Let us know if you find anything, won’t you. Neil’d be interested.’

Carl didn’t reply. He nodded to Wesley and started to dig again with renewed enthusiasm, wondering whether it would be worth borrowing a metal detector from a man he knew in the village pub.

Maggie Palister made no comment. She turned on her heels and

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walked quickly back to the house, loo~ng back once to make sure the two representatives of the local police force were safely off her premises.

The mobile phone is a wonderful invention … at times. From Stoke Beeching, Wesley was able to speak to Neil at Neston parish church and arrange to meet him in Tradmouth that lunch-time.

After a quick sandwich in the Tradmouth Arms and a resume of Rachel’s misfortunes, they walked the short distance to the Peacock Museum.

‘So you think Carl Palister’s going to go on a treasure hunt of his own?’ said Neil with quiet amusement as they passed the ancient bulk of St Margaret’s church.

‘You should have seen the way his eyes lit up when I mentioned the treasure. He almost grabbed his spade and started digging there and then. Any more thoughts on the skeleton?’

‘I reckon that amulet Colin found clinches it: he’s Viking. I suppose he could have been killed in the so-called battle that was supposed to have taken place there and been buried by his shipmates. Perhaps he was their leader so they gave him a good send-off. He had his boat to sail to Valhalla in, didn’t he … the hall of the slain,’ he added with relish.

Wesley changed the subject. ‘What do you make of the Palisters ?’

‘Carl’s okay but the mother’s a bit odd. I asked if I could have a look at the house to see if there were any clues about how old it was and she looked at me as if I’d made an indecent suggestion.’

Wesley smiled. There had been times when Neil’s enthusiasm for his work had been misinterpreted. ‘According to Gerry Heffeman, Maggie Palister hasn’t had an easy life.’

‘Not surprised,’ Neil mumbled uncharitably. They approached the museum and Neil’s eyes lit up with excitement. ‘It’s open.’

Indeed, the door to the Peacock Museum stood open, but it hardly invited the casual visitor. The two men stepped inside the narrow hallway and the bare, splintery floorboards creaked to announce their arrival.

The man who appeared at the door of the front room was in his sixties with a shock of grey hair and a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his beak-like nose. He wore a sports jacket

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with leather patches on the elbows in defiance of the summer heat, and his shirt was slightly frayed at the collar. The effect was completed with a red spotted bow tie. The man looked rather like a museum exhibit himself: undoubtedly an endangered species.

He looked the newcomers up and down with alarm. ‘Can I help you?’ His voice was as dry as his appearance. ‘It’s two pound each, you know,’ he added, as if the exorbitance of the entrance charge might put them off.

It was Neil who decided to do the talking. ‘My name’s Neil Watson from the County Archaeological Unit, and this is Detective Sergeant Peterson from the local CID. He studied archaeology with me at university. Actually we’re here profes-sionally.’

The suspicion lifted from the man’s face. He held out his hand. ‘Geoffrey Bate-Brownlowe. Curator. So pleased to meet you.’ He shook each hand in turn heartily. ‘And what have we here in our little museum that would interest a pair of archaeologists, eh? Let me guess … our little collection of flint arrows and axe-heads. Jeremiah Peacock was a remarkable collector and a well-travelled man. Come along.’ He began to lead the way down the corridor before Neil could get a word in. ‘I’m sure the detective sergeant will be interested in our small collection of African artefacts … ‘

Wesley and Neil exchanged looks. ‘I’m sure they’re very interesting, sir, but we’re here about the treasure hoard that was found on Mr Peacock’s land in the last century.’ Wesley thought the direct approach would be best.

Bate-Brownlowe stopped and turned round. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

He squeezed past them and led the way back to the museum’s small front room. Once a shop, it at least had the advantage of a large window. The sunlight streamed in and caught the dust particles which danced and swirled, suspended in the air. The room was crammed with silent creatures, stuffed and sad in their dirty glass coffins; faded cases of birds’ eggs; regiments of seashells with faded brown writing beneath; dusty turtle shells propped against the wall.

Bate-Brownlowe took something that looked like an old-fashioned ledger from a large black cupboard in the corner. ‘It’s all in here,’ he said, tapping the book. ‘The whole collection. What kind of treasure did you say it was?’

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‘We know that Peacock found something valuable on his land, most of which was sent to London,’ said Neil. ‘That’s all we have to go on at the moment.’

‘So you’ve called in the CID, have you?’ Bate-Brownlowe looked over his glasses at Wesley, a smile playing on his lips. ‘Do you mind me asking why you’re so interested in Jeremiah Peacock’s discoveries?’

‘A skeleton has been found on what used to be Peacock’s land,’ said Wesley. ‘It could have connections with Viking raids on this part of the country in the late tenth or early eleventh century. If we knew what Peacock had found there already it might help us piece together a few clues.’

‘I see.’ Bate-Brownlowe fingered through the great book, its pages foxed \yith age. Eventually he looked up, an expression of triumph on his face. ‘Is this what you’re looking for, do you think?’ He pushed the glasses up his nose and read. ‘One Anglo-Saxon silver pin; two Anglo-Saxon strap-ends; one Anglo-Saxon disc brooch; fifteen silver pennies of Ethelred the Unready; all discovered buried in the field known as Blood Field near to Longhouse Cottage and found to be treasure trove. The bulk of the Longhouse hoard as it is called was presented by Her Majesty Queen Victoria to the British Museum. That’s all there is, I’m afraid. Would you like to see them?’

Neil nodded eagerly. The curator led the way up the uncarpeted staircase to the dimly lit upper floor. They watched as he searched in musty cupboards, taking out boxes and looking inside. Wesley didn’t need telepathic powers to know what Neil was thinking. This was hardly a professional way to run a museum.

‘I’m afraid my speciality is natural history,’ Bate-Brownlowe said by way of explanation, brushing the dust from his jacket. ‘I haven’t taken much interest in the later archaeological exhibits. I’ve only been here six months and I haven’t really found my way around yet.’ He drew out a large flat wooden box and opened it carefully. ‘Here we are, gentlemen. The Longhouse hoard.’

He opened the heavy oak box, which was lined with rich blue velvet. The silver stood out, shining, moon-like, against the dark cloth. There wasn’t really much there, but what there was was impressive.

‘Bet the British Museum got the best bits,’ said Neil bitterly.

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‘Very likely, Mr Watson. I’ve never been quite clear on the laws of treasure trove. Er … ‘

‘It’s easy,’ said Wesley casually. ‘If it was hidden deliberately it’s treasure trove and belongs to the Crown; if it was lost by accident the landowner can keep it. The coroner must have decided that what was found on Longhouse Cottage was hidden deliberately. Was anything else found on Peacock’s landT

Bate-Brownlowe thought for a few moments. ‘Now I’m sure I’ve seen a label … do bear with me … ‘ He knelt down again and began rooting in the cupboard, leaving Neil holding the Saxon treasure. It occurred to Wesley that if they’d been impostors they could have walked away with Tradmouth’s share of the Longhouse hoard with no problem. But perhaps his time in the police force had rendered him over-suspicious.

The curator took another box from the cupboard, a long, grubby cardboard specimen this time. ‘Here it is. I noticed the label on the side. “Sword and shield boss found with skeleton in the bottom field near to Longhouse Cottage. Skeleton reburied undisturbed. Possible Anglo-Saxon.” Is this any help to you at all?’

Wesley took the box and opened it carefully, feeling as excited as a child opening a particularly intriguing Christmas parcel. The sword lay there, a corroded length of rust, giving few clues as to its original fearsome splendour. Beside it lay a round, rusted shield boss, about the size of a dinner plate; the wooden shield surrounding it had long since rotted away.

Neil looked up at the curator, grinning. This is just what we were looking for,’ he said, his eyes glowing with anticipation.

Gerry Heffeman sat at his desk contemplating lunch. He had bought a ham roll and a banana - a combination that seemed to him sadly inadequate for a grown man. Normally he would have patronised the station canteen, but with Wesley out on unspecified business and Stan Jenkins in hospital he would probably end up eating his sausage and chips in solitary splendour with nobody to talk to.

Besides, he was busy … which was more than could be said for his son, who was no doubt spending the day in bed after his mysterious excursions of the night before. When the fond father had enquired how the job had gone, Sam had blushed and answered with a mumbled ‘okay’. But Heffeman had been young

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once himself and knew that Sam was hiding something. He just hoped that it was nothing immoral, illegal or unhealthy.

The telephone on Heffernan’ s desk rang just as he was about to bite into his ham roll. He picked up the receiver and grunted. It was the coastguard, who told him reproachfully that they had rung first thing that morning and left a message. They thought he’d like to know that a hired yacht had been found drifting and ablaze off the coast near Stoke Beeching. Heffernan’s name had been mentioned at the time it was hired. The fire had been extinguished and the boat searched but there was no sign of anybody on board… alive or dead. The police launch had towed it back into Tradmouth.

‘Hang on a minute. Where do I come in? Who hired this yacht?’

‘It was a Danish gentleman,’ said the coastguard on the other end of the line. ‘A Sven Larsen. Just thought we’d let you know personally, seeing as your name came up. I’ll leave it with you, then.’