The Funeral Boat (5 page)

‘Hi, Pam … Wes. I understand commiserations are in order … wedding anniversary, isn’t it?’

‘You’re turning into a crusty old cynic, Neil. You could do with a bit of romance in your life. Did you ever get round to ringing my friend Anne?’ Pam asked with a teasing grin as she sat herself down beside him. She knew Neil of old. Although he had expressed interest in her widowed friend, Anne, he had been too lazy - or too busy digging up the past - to take any action. Now Anne was away for a few weeks, but Pam would persevere when

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she returned: she rather fancied herself in the role of matchmaker, and Neil was a challenge.

‘So what’s the latest on Longhouse Cottage?’ asked Wesley before Pam could get another word in. Since Neil’s phone call Wes](~y’s mind had been on matters archaeological: he hadn’t come to sit around, burdened with unanswered questions, while his wife tried to sort out their friend’s love life.

Neil sat back and held out his empty glass. ‘Get us a pint and I’ll tell you.’

Wesley fought his way through the members of the yachting fraternity drinking at the bar, who were exchanging tales of ports, moorings and uncooperative harbour authorities. Some of them looked at him curiously, a stranger in their nautical world. Laden with drinks, he returned to the cosy scene in the corner, where Neil, who had now started reminiscing with Parn about their shared student days, seemed to be enjoying himself.

Wesley asked his question again. This time Neil was ready to co-operate.

‘I got Matt and lane over and we did a bit of digging. We found loads more rivets. It’s certainly a boat, but not a big one … probably a rowing boat. You could see the shape quite clearly when the skeleton was removed, and 1 found a couple of pieces of wood too, although most of it had rotted away. But the most exciting find was a beautiful axe-head we found underneath the boat. I’m going to get it X-rayed and examined but I’d lay money on it being Viking. Those dark flakes fused to the skeleton were interesting too. They certainly looked like rust … we’ll run some tests. And there were some more, similar small flakes on the side of the skull too. 1 wonder … ‘

‘What?’

‘Whether someone’s dug the grave up before and removed whatever it was. Some farmer probably kept what he’d found as a curio. It happened all the time - skeleton discovered with grave goods, grave goods nicked, skeleton either left there or the bones dug up and scattered. Even so-called experts in days gone by perpetrated all sorts of destruction that’d give any self-respecting modem archaeologist the vapours.’

Wesley nodded. He had heard all this before. He glanced at Pam, who was listening with what seemed like genuine interest.

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That was good. He had more questions to ask. ‘So what are you going to do about it, then?’

‘Oh, we’ve recorded everything, photographed it and covered the site with plastic. 1 told Carl not to fill it in for now. 1 know it’s not official or anything, but I’d still like to have a dig around … for my own curiosity.’

‘What about the Palisters?’

‘The mother’s not keen on us being there. She doesn’t say much but 1 can feel the vibes, if you know what 1 mean. But the son seems interested … positively enthusiastic.’

Wesley smiled to himself, more certain than ever that the skeleton didn’t belong to Jock Palister.

‘How’s the dig in Neston going? What is it exactly?’

‘They’re replacing a section of floor in Neston parish church and we’ve been asked to see if we can find any trace of the first church built on the site. Most local historians seem to believe that it could have been an Anglo-Saxon minster, as Neston was such an important place … a burgh … ‘

‘What’s a burgh?’ asked Pam.

A big voice, reminiscent of the banks of the Mersey, boomed in reply. ‘It’s a big furry animal that lives in a cave. Hi, Wes. Didn’t think you’d be in here tonight. You never mentioned it.’ Gerry Heffernan stood grinning reproachfully, glass in hand.

The only trouble with the Tradmouth Arms, Wesley thought, was that it was virtually next door to his boss’s whitewashed cottage at the end of Baynard’s Quay. He felt guilty for resenting Heffernan’s presence - after all, the inspector was a widower, alone in the world and longing for a bit of off-duty company, and he did like the man. But the prospect of being joined by his superior each time he wanted a quiet drink with his old university friends didn’t fill Wesley Peterson with feelings of unmixed delight. However, he forced himself to smile as he made room for his boss to sit down.

‘I had to get out, Wes. Those holidaymakers don’t half make a racket outside my house … it’s like Piccadilly ruddy station in the summer.’ He looked across at Pam. ‘Hello, love. How’s things? 1 understand you’re to be congratulated for putting up with our Wes for five long years.’

‘That’s right.’ Pam smiled. ‘Not thatI see much of him these days,’ she added ruefully, glancing over at her husband.

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‘Not my fault, love. Blame our villains. When they work overtime so do we.’ Gerry Heffeman took a long drink.

‘Anyway, how are you, Gerry?’ asked Pam tactfully. ‘I’ve not seen you since Michael’s christening.’

‘I’m bearing up under the tidal wave of crime.’ He winked at Wesley. ‘And my lad’s coming home for the holidays tomorrow. He’s at Liverpool University … training to be a vet,’ Heffeman said proudly.

‘That’s nice,’ said Pam with sincerity. ‘What about your daughter?’

‘She’s gone off to Salzburg with a group from the music college … some sort of course,’ he said, sounding disappointed. ‘Anyway…’ He changed the subject. ‘How come the taxpayer spends a ruddy fortune on your education and you lot don’t know what a bear is?’

‘A burgh,’ said Neil, smiling smugly, ‘is a fortified town. Alfred the Great set up a load of them so that people would have some defence against Viking attack. Neston had become a burgh by the tenth century, as wen as a market town. It even had its own mint … made its own money.’

‘So what about this minster?’ asked Pam, interested.

‘Well, there’s a theory that as Neston was such an important place a thousand years ago it must have had a minster church … a sort of monastery and principal church of the district. So if we can find traces of the Anglo-Saxon minster on the site of the parish church … ‘ His face suddenly clouded. ‘Unless they built it out of wood, of course, then it’s the Devil’s own job to find anything … all you get is a few post holes and a bit of stained soil, and under a building that’s been developed over the years, you’d be lucky to find them.’

‘And did the big hairy Vikings manage to attack Neston then?’ asked Pam teasingly. She was beginning to enjoy herself, and found the conversation a refreshing change from endless days of baby care.

Neil leaned towards her. ‘Well, we don’t know for certain. There are stories, of course … 1 mean this Viking Festival next weekend is cashing in on local legends. It was started by some local history society in 1997 to commemorate the thousandth anni versary of the supposed Viking raids.’

‘I saw some leaflets about that. They’re looking for volunteers to take part,’ said Pam thoughtfully.

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But Neil wasn’t listening. ‘Although there were some very bad raids on Devon in 997,’ he continued. ‘The town isn’t actually mentioned by name in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. But I intend to discover the truth … whatever it is.’

Pam glanced over at Gerry Heffeman with a secretive smile on her face, while Neil drained his glass dramatically and flicked his long hair out of his face with soil-stained fingers. Wesley said nothing but sat back, thinking about the bones buried deep in the field at Longhouse Cottage.

At dusk Josiah Beaumont climbed into his tractor, more than ready for home and maybe a quick last pint at the Crown before bed. He chugged slowly out of the field onto the narrow lane, getting down wearily to close the gate behind him.

He progressed up the single-track lane at a stately pace, knowing that behind the high hedgerows lay acre upon acre of rolling countryside; the loveliest in England. But that evening his mind wasn’t on the appreciation of nature or the contemplation of beauty. He had lived with this landscape all his life and took it for granted … couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.

As he drove along past crossroads and isolated cottages, his thoughts flew to lower matters: whether his wife would go on at him again about the broken washer in the tap; whether he would miss that programme on ITV with all those sex scenes; and whether that car with the foreign number plates would still be there on that grass verge when he passed.

He slowed down as he reached the verge, next to a sudden widening of the road, broad enough to accommodate three smallish vehicles. It was still there. A white car, an Opel - quite new, quite nice. But foreign, left-hand drive, with strange foreignˇ number plates. He saw lots of foreign cars about in the holiday season - Dutch, French or German mostly. From his elevated position he could watch the drivers’ expressions of deep concentration as they negotiated the blind-bended lanes from an unfamiliar side of the road while he, Josiah, sat smug in the familiar security of his slow-moving tractor.

This white car was foreign all right. But where was its driver? There were no houses near by … there was nothing near by except fields. And it had been there since Monday. If it had broken down surely it would have been recovered by now. Josiah drew up

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alongside, left his engine running and climbed down to have a quick look.

He peered into the white car’s windows, but the light was fading and he couldn’t see clearly. But he could make out a coat on the back seat, a woman’s coat, and some sort of bag. He put a nervous hand on the door handle. To his astonishment it was unlocked and the door opened with a slight creak. 10siah shut it again quickly, the bang seeming to echo in the evening air. He would leave well alone.

He squinted at his watch in the half-light. Quarter to ten. That programme would be starting any minute. He might ring the police in the morning if the car hadn’t gone by then.

But that night it wasn’t only the thought of the naked writhings he had witnessed on the television screen that occupied 10siah’s mind, depriving him of sleep while his wife snored gently beside him. He kept asking himself the same question. Who would leave a car abandoned and unlocked for days in an isolated place? As he lay awake his unease turned to fear - a gnawing feeling that something dreadful had happened.

First thing the next morning, before he dressed and sat down to breakfast, 10siah Beaumont telephoned the police.

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AD 997

Many arrived in our town today from villages round about.

They too had heard of the horrors that the men from the north

had wrought upon Lydford and Tavistock. Some stay with kin

but many have sought the shelter of the Minster. The brothers

pray the danger does not last long as our house must provide

sustenance for all.

There are some nuns of the district who take refuge with us. I

pray the Lord to keep His people in safety.

From the chronicle of Brother Edwin, monk of Neston Minster

The last thing Wesley Peterson wanted to face first thing in the morning was a vi.sit to the mortuary. But at least today Colin Bowman had only called him over to discuss the bones that had been found at Longhouse Cottage … hardly as gruesome as a full post-mortem.

Wesley told himself as he walked to the hospital that there was nothing to be squeamish about; that he would see only dry bones, nothing worse than he had seen during many an archaeological dig in his student days. But there was something about the mortuary itself - the smell of death; the clinical surroundings which masked the true purpose of the place - that filled his heart with dread each time he stepped through the plastic swing-doors.

He found Colin Bowman in his cosy office and was immediately offered some excellent coffee and a superior chocolate biscuit. Colin Bowman had a taste for the best things in life. As Gerry Heffernan had commented more than once, they certainly knew how to live down at the mortuary.

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Wesley liked Colin and found him a genial host, but he was anxious to get the business over with … to leave this place of death and get back into the sun. But Colin Bowman couldn’t be hurried. After a long discussion about Michael’s sleeping habits, W esley’ s sister Maritia’s medical career, Mrs Bowman’s new part-time job in a local antique shop, Gerry Heffernan’s son’s home-coming and a few other subjects besides, Wesley at last managed to steer the conversation around to death.

Reluctantly, Colin put the packet of biscuits away and led Wesley to a spartan white room. On a trolley in the centre of the room lay a skeleton.

‘There he is. Our six-foot-two-inch male of unknown origin.’

‘Can you tell me anything else about him?’ Wesley asked tentatively.

‘I can tell you that he was probably in his thirties when he met his end and that he most likely died from a severe blow to the head.’ Bowman indicated the back of the skull.

‘What was he hit with? Can you tell?’

Bowman shook his balding head and smiled. ‘Actually, it looks rather like an axe wound, but 1 can’t tell you any more than that. There’s one interesting thing, though.’ He turned his attention to the skeleton’s shoulder bone. ‘See
that nick there on the clavicle … the collar bone?’

Wesley bent down to look. The bone looked as though it had been nicked by something sharp. ‘Yes. What is it?’

‘Well, I did some experiments to see what could have caused it and 1 think I’ve come up with the answer. 1 have a friend who collects old swords … he’s got quite an impressive array of the things. I borrowed one of his older swords and matched it with the cut to the bone. I’m certain it’s a sword cut. I can’t prove it, of course, but…’

‘Could that have killed him?’

‘Not there, no. It would only have wounded him. Of course, 1 can’t say he wasn’t wounded then dispatched with a blow to the head as he lay writhing in agony. After all this time it’s impossible to tell.’