The Funeral Boat (33 page)

The folly wasn’t obvious if you weren’t looking for it - a tiny stone castle, about the size of a large garden shed, well camouflaged by trees. Exactly as Jock had described it. Wesley walked slowly towards the battered wooden door, feeling a sudden stab of fear.

He looked at Rachel, and she gave him a quick smile. ‘Well? The door’s ajar. Do we go in?’

Wesley nodded. Without a word he approached the door and

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pushed it open, noting the strong, new~looking padlock that dangled from its fastening. The first thing that hit them was the smell. Excrement. Jock would hardly contemplate storing his precious booze supplies here now. They covered their noses as they stepped inside.

Wesley had come equipped. He pulled a torch from his pocket and shone the beam around the walls. In one corner stood a plastic bucket which, on closer inspection, they saw had been used as a lavatory but had not been emptied - this was the source of the foul smell. In another corner was a mattress covered by a couple of filthy blankets. There was debris on the floor: another pad of chloroform-soaked gauze, like the one found in Ingeborg’s white Opel; strong strips of sticking plaster; short lengths of washing line, enough to bind hands and feet; an empty pill bottle which, on examination, they could see had contained strong sleeping tablets. Wesley and Rachellooked at each other.

‘Someone’s been kept here,’ said Wesley quietly.

‘Ingeborg?’

Wesley nodded. ‘You can still smell the chloroform amongst other things. She must have been here when we came about the prowler. And I don’t think she’s been gone long either.’

‘What do we do now?’ asked Rachel, making nervously for the door. This place, apart from the stench, gave her the creeps.

‘We call for back-up … and get SOCOs to go over this place. Then we go up to Waters House and ask some questions. ‘

‘So Mildred Tensby kept her here?’

Wesley didn’t answer. He made the necessary calls as soon as they were outside, his mind racing. He began to think of two stories he’d come across during the past few days. There was Pete Wexer’s revenge on his father … and then there was the ancient story Pam had translated. The vengeful child rights the wrong, kills the lover who had caused all the grief. It was probably a story old as time itself … a story that had repeated itself here in Stoke Beeching when Ingeborg Larsen had turned up out of the blue and awakened the suppressed desire to avenge Mary Wentwood’s suicide. But whose desire? Who had abducted Ingeborg and kept her prisoner in the folly? And where was Ingeborg now?

‘I don’t think Mildred Tensby could have known about that place,’ said Wesley as they walked towards Waters House. ‘It was one of Mary Wentwood’s children - Christopher or Ursula … or

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both. I’m certain Mildred’s covering up for them. She let them know Ingeborg was in Tradmouth but I think that was the extent of her involvement.’

Rachellooked sceptical. ‘How can you be sureT

‘I can’t. But everything Mildred’s told us so far is long on generalities and short on detail … she could have got the lot from newspaper reports. And Pam’s been translating this story,’ he added with a smile. ‘It just reminded me of this case. If one of Mary Wentwood’s children wanted to kill Ingeborg to avenge their mother, then it all makes sense.’

At the mention of Pam’ s name, Rachel fell silent and looked at Wesley regretfully.

The police cars were rolling up the drive as they stepped into the large, gloomy hallway of Waters House. Gwen Wentwood looked uneasy, as though she sensed than this was no routine visit. She led Wesley and Rachel into the living room. Christopher Wentwood’s laptop computer lay neatly in the centre of the desk in the corner. The desk was tidy, files piled up to one side.

‘Where’s your husband, Mrs Wentwood?,

Gwen looked fearful. ‘He’s gone out … with Ursula.’

‘Where?’

‘The fete at the Naval College in Tradmouth. Ursuia has a stall there … selling her pottery. Is this about Millie?’

Wesley leaned forward, watching Gwen’s face. ‘We’ve just had a look inside your folly.’

Gwen took a tissue from her pocket and twisted it in her hands. ‘I don’t know what you mean. The previous owners told us the folly was dangerous. Nobody’s been in the place since we moved in. We’ve kept well away.’

‘It looked fine to us,’ said Rachel.

‘We’ve never even looked at it. We’ve had enough to do in this place without bothering about … What is all this?’

The telephone on the desk rang and Gwen grabbed at it. A brief conversation followed. ‘I can’t. I’ve made other arrangements,’ she mumbled guardedly into the mouthpiece. There was a brief pause, then she grudgingly gave in. ‘All right, then. I’ll bring it down as soon as I can.’

She replaced the receiver, obviously annoyed, resentful. ‘My

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sister-in-law’s forgotten the cash float for her stall at the fete. She wants me to take it over now. I really can’t be long.’

Rachellooked at Wesley, who appeared to be deep in thought. She decided to continue. ‘We won’t keep you much longer, Mrs Wentwood. But we have reason to believe that Ingeborg Larsen was kept in that folly against her will … imprisoned. And we want to talk to your husband … and your sister-in-law … ‘

‘No,’ said Gwen firmly. ‘There’s no way Christopher would be involved in anything like that. You’re mistaken.’ She looked at Rachel, woman to woman, pleading for her to understand. ‘Now Ursula, she’s a very’ - she searched for the word - ‘determined person. I sometimes think that she was given all the strength in that family.’ She put her hand to her mouth as if she’d realised she’d said too much. ‘Of course, I’m not saying she’d do anything … But perhaps with Millie. I don’t know. All I know is that Christopher isn’t involved. He can’t be. Please believe me.’

Gwen Wentwood looked from Wesley to Rachel, desperate, willing them to believe her.

‘We’ll have to talk to your husband … and your sister-in-law. You do realise that, Mrs Wentwood?, said Wesley softly. Gwen nodded and put her face in her hands.

Wesley stood up. ‘They’re at the fete, you say?’ Gwen nodded, resigned. ‘You said you had to take something over to them. Do you want a lift there?’

‘No … I’ll drive myself. Er … thank you,’ she said, her mind elsewhere. They said a quiet goodbye and left her, gnawing at her fingernails in that room without sunlight.

Rachel drove them into Tradmouth, making, like everyone else, for the grounds of the Naval College, which stood on the hill above the town. Wesley rang Gerry Heffernan on his mobile and asked him to meet them there. Then he sat, quiet, thinking.

After a while Rachel broke the silence. ‘You think they did it? Both of them? Christopher and Ursula?’

‘I think Millie’ s covering up for someone and that that someone is one or both of her beloved Mary’s children. Don’t you agree?’

‘Oh, yes. This is revenge. You can positively smell it.’

Wesley sat back. He felt in his pocket absent-mindedly and pulled out the pages ofPam’s notebook.

‘What have you got there? Been making notes?’

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‘No. This is that thing Paro translated. 1 was going -to finish reading it this morning but I ran out of time … Not that 1 can’t guess what’s coming next.’

‘You’ve got ten minutes till we get there. Enjoy yourself,’ Rachel replied sarcastically. She could never see the appeal of the ancient.

Wesley began to read.

I took up the axe but I could not strike. I could not kill him. I

sank to my knees, weeping like a child. I looked at Hilda and

saw such love, such pity on her face, for I know she loved me

with the love we should reserve for our Maker. I was all to her

and she saw my grief Gently she took the axe from my hand

then, with a great cry, she did strike Olaf who stood before

me, thinking himself safe. There was amazement on his

countenance as he fell. The axe fell from Hilda’ s hands and

she ran from the house.

‘What’s the matter, Wesley?’ Rachel could see the shock on his face.

‘It’s, er…’ He paused. ‘Who reported the prowler?’

‘Er … Christopher Wentwood, I think.’

‘Would you invite the police up to your “house if you were holding someone captive in the grounds?’

‘I WOUldn’t,’ Rachel said with a smile. ‘But then I don’t go in for kidnapping. What are you getting at?’

‘I think we might be after the wrong person, Rach.’

‘Well, do we go to the fete or not?’

‘Oh, yes. We go to the fete.’

Rachel drove on through the ornate gates of the Naval College, slowing to walking pace to avoid the strolling, brightly clad crowds who invaded the august establishment for one day each year to enjoy the fete held in its grounds to aid local charities. She parked the police car in a spot marked ‘No Parking’, using the power of the law, and Wesley followed her to the hub of activity, the massive playing field edged with stalls. It didn’t take them long to spot the Wentwoods. Wesley recognised the brightly coloured pottery - it was hard to miss it. If the Wentwoods hadn’t been suspects in a murder enquiry, he might have bought some … it was just the kind of thing Paro liked.

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‘The Wentwoods are both there on the stall,’ he managed to say before the cheerful music blaring over the Tannoy was interrupted by an announcement. Thor’s Hammers were about to give a demonstration of authentic Viking battle techniques. ‘Not that lot again,’ said Wesley. ‘All through this case we’ve been dogged by Vikings.’ He smiled.

‘Too right,’ said Rachel bitterly as Wesley began to walk purposefully towards the stall. ‘Shall we wait for back-up?’

‘I don’t think there’s anything to be gained by waiting … not if there’s a chance she’s still alive.’

Ursula had spotted them. She nudged her brother and whispered something in his ear. Customers were drifting away to watch Thor’s Hammers’ demonstration. When Rachel and Wesley reached the stall they had Ursula and Christopher Wentwood to themselves.

‘Good afternoon,’ Wesley began formally. ‘Lovely day for the fete.’

The Wentwoods glanced at each other, then nodded warily. Wesley had seen Gerry Heffernan taking suspects off their guard: it was a technique that usually worked. ‘We’ve just been to your place … we had a look in the folly.’ He waited for a reaction. But Christopher and Ursula Wentwood displayed no panic … not even a flicker of concern.

‘Really?’ said Christopher, touching his ear nervously. ‘I don’t know why you’d want to do that. I haven’t been down there for months. I was planning to store some tools and things in there but it was much too damp. Bit of a white elephant really. I’ve even thought of knocking it down.’

‘It has’a new padlock.’

‘Yes. I bought one when I planned to keep the tools in there. I just left it on with the key in. Why? What is all this? Surely the police can’t be interested in a glorified garden hut.’ He looked at his sister and she nodded eagerly in agreement.

‘I don’t understand, Sergeant. What’s all this about?’ Ursula asked with what sounded like genuine concern.

Wesley glanced at Rachel. ‘We’ve found evidence that the missing woman, Ingeborg Larsen, has been held there. The woman who had an affair with your father and caused your mother’s suicide.’ Rachellooked from one to the other, waiting for some indication of guilt. But the brother and sister looked

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horrified, then puzzled. Christopher began to chew his knuckles, tense.

‘You mean Millie kept her in there … that’s awful,’ said Ursula, seemingly sincere. ‘We never knew … honestly. It’s so far from the house and … unless…’

‘Unless what?’ asked Wesley, eager for any suggestion.

A few yards away Thor’s Hammers had emerged from their marquee and were indulging in some preliminary skirmishes. It was to be a purely professional demonstration this time - no amateurs involved. Wesley noticed Odin swaggering at the fore-front of the group. Odin looked around the watching punters, caught Wesley’s eye and looked away quickly before raising his great sword in salute to the crowd.

‘Unless what?’ he repeated, returning his attention to police matters.

‘Our father must have been hanging around for days before he called at the house. We thought he was a prowler, if you remember. He could have met up with Ingeborg and … After all, I suppose she blighted his life as well as everyone else’s,’ Ursula said convincingly.

‘But he wasn’t to know that the place wasn’t used, was he?’ said Wesley gently. ‘You’re out a lot on business, I believe, Mr Wentwood?,

Christopher Wentwood nodded anxiously. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, barely audible.

‘And Miss Wentwood, you’re usually working in your studio or out selling your pottery.’

‘Yes. That’s right. Why?’

Wesley didn’t answer. As he turned to watch Thor’s Hammers, who were getting into their stride with clashing steel and bloodcurdling screams, he saw a familiar figure walking across the parched grass towards the pottery stall. Very familiar … a woman whose identity was concealed beneath a straw sunhat and dark glasses.

Rachel touchedWesley’s arm. ‘It’s her, in the videos … it’s her.’

The woman saw Wesley and Rachel staring at her and halted, removing her dark glasses. Then she began to back away, wary.

‘Isn’t that your wife, Mr Wentwood?’ said Wesley as casually as he could. ‘I think we’d better have a word with her.’

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At that moment Wesley spotted Gerry Heffernan lumbering towards them past the empty stalls. Gwen Wentwood turned and nipped into the crowd, weaving her way through until she was out of sight.

‘Let’s get after her,’ said Wesley quietly. He took Rachel’s arm and steered her towards the crowd. ‘Didn’t she say that nobody had been in the folly since they moved in? But her husband just said he planned to keep tools in there … even fitted a padlock. Which way did she go? Can you see her?’

‘I think she made for the arena … over there.’

Wesley took off in pursuit, followed by Rachel. He heard a shout of ‘Hey, Wes, where are you off to?’, and glanced round to see Gerry Heffernan and Steve Carstairs puffing after them. Of the two Gerry appeared the fitter.