The Funeral Boat (9 page)

‘Just flash your warrant card. Tell her it’s a raid or something.’

‘I hardly think that’ll put her in a cooperative frame of mind,’ said Wesley, smiling at Neil’s dim view of policing. ‘Besides, I’m off duty.’

It was Neil who knocked on the pale yellow front door. With its pink stucco walls and yellow paintwork, the symmetrical house reminded Wesley of a giant Battenberg cake. A thin elderly woman with snow-white hair half opened the door and peered out suspiciously.

‘I’m sorry to bother you but my name’s Neil Watson and I work

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for the County Archaeological Unit. Some bones have been discovered at Longhouse Cottage … possibly very old. And Mrs Palister who lives there said you might know something about the history of the place, Mrs … er … ‘

‘Crick. Who’s that?’ She looked at Wesley with open suspicion.

‘This is Wesley Peterson. He was at university with me studying archaeology but now he’s a policeman. Show Mrs Crick your warrant card, Wesley.’

Wesley obliged, acknowledging that Neil had been right. Mrs Crick opened the door wider and invited them into a front parlour crammed with family photographs and over-fussy china.

‘You’ll have a cup of tea,’ the old lady ordered.

Not daring to refuse, they smiled and nodded while the best china was brought out and a plate of three-day-old scones was set before them. She had visitors … there were rituals to be observed.

‘That Mrs Palister’s a funny woman,’ stated Mrs Crick as she handed out the teacups. ‘I’m surprised she mentioned me. I’ve only talked to her a couple of times. They used to live up at Waters House but they sold it to some folk from London and moved down to Longhouse Cottage when her husband upped and left about three years back. Jock, her husband’s name was - rough-looking character. He was never out of the Blacksmith’s Arms, so I’ve heard.’ She nodded knowingly. ‘Her son Carl doesn’t seem a bad lad, though … considering.’

‘Mrs Palister said you told her about an old legend … some pebbles in the stream. A battle?’

‘The Danes, it was.’

‘Where did you hear that?’ asked Wesley.

She looked at him curiously. ‘It’sjust a story … something you hear. The pebbles are red because of the blood. I don’t know how true it is. Mind you, there was that hoard found up there. ‘

Neil sat forward. ‘What hoard?’

‘There was a hoard of treasure found on that land. Don’t know much, do you?’ She frowned at the ignorance of this so-called archaeologist.

‘When was this?’

‘It was over a hundred years age. The man who owned Waters House owned Longhouse Cottage too. He used to let it out to

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tenants but it was on his land. He was digging one day and found a load of treasure. I thought you’d know about it.’

‘What happened to the treasure?’

‘Oh, I think it went to London. It was very valuable … treasure trove and all that. But if you want to know more there’s always the museum.’

‘The County Museum?’

‘No. His museum, in Tradmouth. I forget the name now … something to do with birds.’ She screwed her face up, trying to retrieve the elusive snippet of information.

‘Not the Peacock Museum. That little place near St Margaret’s church?’ Wesley had noticed the tiny whitewashed terraced house with an open door displaying the entrance fee. It had dusty windows and an uninvitingly shabby sign outside naming it as the Peacock Museum of Local History. The place had an unappealing, dry look which didn’t promise much of interest within apart from a few birds’ eggs, a menagerie of stuffed animals and rows of disintegrating ship models and farm implements.

‘That’s it. The Peacock Museum. His name was Peacock, you see, and he gave his collection to the town council. As well as Waters House he owned a house in Tradmouth, and he left that to the town as a museum to house his things … mostly junk if you ask me.’

‘Is there any ofthis treasure in the museum?’

‘I don’t know. Not been since I was a girl. But they always take everything valuable to London, don’t they,’ she said resentfully. ‘Leave us with the rubbish.’

Wesley smiled and nodded. He suspected that Mrs Crick had probably had revolutionary tendencies in her younger days.

She leaned forward and tapped Wesley on the knee. ‘Those bones … I reckon I know whose they are. You’re policeman, aren’t you? Well, I suggest you ask that Palister woman up there what happened to her husband. He disappeared, you know … and he was a bad’ un. She wouldn’t be the first wife to do away with her husband, now, would sheT

Wesley refrained from saying that his boss was thinking along the same lines. ‘Neil here thinks the bones are very old.’

‘Well, I reckon he’s wrong. He used to beat her up, you know … I’ve seen her with a black eye more than once. He got what he deserved, if you ask me.’ The old lady sat back in her

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chintz-covered armchair, the fire of righteous indignation in her eyes belying her harmless appearanŤe. Mrs Crick, Wesley thought, would probably have been more than capable of dealing with any recalcitrant husband in her younger days. He found himself wondering what had become of Mr Crick.

‘You’ll have another cup oftea,’ she ordered. Neil and Wesley knew better than to refuse.

It was eight o’clock when Detective Constable Rachel Tracey finished loading the dirty dishes into the dishwasher in the cavernous kitchen of her family’s farm. She turned round to find her mother looking at her appraisingly.

‘I was wanting a little word, Rachel … now your dad’s not here,’ she said in wheedling tones. Her father and brothers were out of the way tending to the farm’s evening chores. ‘Are your lot any nearer catching the buggers who shot Dan Wexer?’

Rachel walked over the stone floor to the huge farmhouse table and sat herself down: she knew how long her mother’s ‘little words’ took. ‘Not really, Mum. We’ve had no leads, see. And they’re professional … they cover their tracks.’

‘That’s four farms they’ve done now,’ Stena Tracey said, the worry audible in her voice. ‘I mean, we could be next. Have you thought of that?’

Rachel nodded. Being privy to the police’s lack of progress, she’d thought oflittle else. ‘We’re doing our best, Mum, but they don’t leave many clues. But we’ll get ‘em one of these days.’ She tried to sound confident. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

Stella Tracey looked at her daughter slyly. ‘I was thinking, Rachel, what about asking Dave to come back. I mean, he’s a big lad and very useful round the fami. And I’ll bet he’d rather be here than stopping at that hotel in Morbay. They only give their staff the poky little rooms in the attic, you know. And you’d have him here again. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? 1 know he had the holiday flat last time, but if he wouldn’t mind having the spare room … ‘

Rachel wasn’t falling for the bait. ‘I think we’ve got enough grown men around the place to put these robbers off, don’t you?’ Her father and three brothers, she thought, might be enough of a deterrent. She couldn’t see how one extra, albeit a tall, good-looking Australian, would make much difference. She suspected her mother had other motives. Nature doesn’t abhor a vacuum half

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so much as the conventional mother abhors her adult daughter’s single state.

‘So what do you say? Will you ask him next time you see him? The lads are busy with the farm and I need someone to help with the holiday flats now that you work such long hours.’

‘I’ll think about it, Mum. Don’t push things, okay?’

Stella Tracey’ s round face was a picture of innocence. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, dear.’ She began to arrange washing around the Aga, holdil1g her fire for the time being. Then, as if to make her point, she turned round. ‘Rachel, dear, could you do me a favour?’ She pointed to an electric kettle standing on the windowsill. ‘Could you take the kettle back to Flat Three in the old bam? Our Tom’s put a new plug on it. The man there came over earlier to complain that it wasn’t working.’

‘Okay.’ Rachel got up. ‘Flat Three, is it?’ The Traceys had five holiday flats on their farm, vital to make ends meet.

‘That’s right.’ Rachel could tell by her mother’s expression of disapproval that there was something about the occupant of Flat Three that she didn’t like. ‘It’s a Mr Proudy … staying for three weeks, he is. He’s there with his wife - if she is his wife,’ she added disapprovingly. ‘Funny pair, they are: all sorts of comings and goings at strange times. Some of the other guests have said they go out in the early hours, slamming doors and goodness knows what.’

‘Laurence Proudy?, Rachel felt a thrill of excitement. The man who had quarrelled with Ingeborg Larsen was staying on her own doorstep.

Stella Tracey looked at her daughter as if she’d just performed a particularly amazing conjuring trick. ‘That’s right. How did you know?’ Then her expression suddenly changed. ‘He’s not wanted by the police, is he?’

‘Not that I know of, Mum,’ Rachel said reassuringly, picking up the kettle. She stepped out of the kitchen door into the farmyard, which was flanked by huge corrugated-iron bams containing an impressive array of farm machinery. The old bam some way away was far more picturesque, and had been converted into three modem holiday flats. Two more flats were in a nearby outbuilding. The conversions had been expensive but had proved lucrative in an era of financial uncertainty for the farming community.

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Rachel knew she’d have to tread careful1y She could hardly begin to question the man now. But she could see him, weigh him up. Knowing your enemy was the first rule of warfare, so she had heard.

She crossed over to the old barn, an ancient stone building gutted and modernised and boasting new, gleaming white windows and doors. Rachel knocked firmly on the door of Flat Three.

The door was opened by a tall woman, probably in her thirties, with a shining helmet of dark hair and wearing a short dress of fashionable simplicity. She chewed as she looked Rachel up/and down. Rachel, having changed from her smart working suit into shorts and T-shirt, felt at a disadvantage - but then she realised that the best policy was staying undercover; playing the farmer’s daughter rather than an off-duty policewoman.

‘Your kettle’s fixed,’ she said, exaggerating her Devon accent. ‘Everything else all right, is it?’ She used all the skill learned during a brief sojourn in the divisional Amateur Dramatic Society to produce a friendly smile.

‘Yes.’ The woman’s voice was unexpectedly deep, with just a hint of a foreign accent. ‘Everything’s fine.’

‘You don’t need more pillows? Only some people like more … ‘

‘No. We’re okay.’

A man appeared in the hallway. ‘Who is it?’

‘Just someone from the farm … about the kettle.’

‘We’ve had it mended,’ Rachel called through. ‘It should be okay now.’

The man was probably in his late twenties, a little younger than his companion. He was smallish with a cropped hairstyle that didn’t do much to improve his belligerent expression. He looked through Rachel as if she weren’t there.

‘Well, if everything’s all right I’ll leave you to it. If there’s anything, anything at all, you know where we are, don’t you?’ She gave what she considered to be a sunny smile, which the woman attempted to return. The man, however, muttered something about being okay and shut the door in her face.

So that was Laurence Proudy, she thought, having taken an instant dislike to the man. She looked at the cars parked in front of the bam. A new silver BMW stood at one end with a noticeable

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dent in the nearside wing, presumably the result of his meeting with Ingeborg Larsen.

Rachel made a note of the registration number and walked back slowly to the farmhouse. Even if he’d quarrelled with Ingeborg, it was hardly a reason to do her harm. But then so-called road rage was becoming more common; there were new cases i!l the papers every day. It was with some satisfaction that Rachel contemplated Proudy being hauled off to Tradmouth police station the following day to answer some pertinent questions.

Stena Tracey noticed that her daughter was quiet as they spent the evening following the labyrinthine plot of one of Stella’s favourite television detective programmes. Perhaps, she thought, it reminded Rachel too much of work. If Dave - such a nice boy and so good-looking - came back to the farm it would take Rachel’s mind off things.

Waters House, perched on the hillside above Longhouse Cottage, was a imposing white stucco building of pleasingly Georgian proportions. Some said it had once been the vicarage for Stoke Beeching church, but Gwen Wentwood didn’t believe that. It was too far away from the church for one thing - right out of the village - and she had heard that the place had another, more interesting history.

Gwen looked across at her husband, who had just closed the lid of his laptop computer. The machine emitted a satisfying final bleep and he sat back and closed his eyes. Gwen watched him lovingly: when they had first met she had thought him rather beautiful with his large brown eyes and long, poetic hair. Now the hair was shorter and, with his thirtieth birthday just passed, his waistline thicker. But the signs of strain on his face worried Gwen more than any signs of age. She reached across and touched his hand, a light, gossamer touch. He looked up at her and smiled weakly.

‘Finished?’ she asked gently.

‘I’ve just got a bit more to do.’

‘Is there anything you want? Something to eat? Shall I open a bottle of wine?’

A large antique clock ticked away on the mantelpiece but Christopher Wentwood looked at his watch out of habit. ‘Nothing for me … not yet anyway.’

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He carried his laptop over to the cluttered desk by the huge bay window. He really would have to tidy it … be more businesslike. He had left the security of a large firm in London three years ago to come back to Devon and set up on his own. If it hadn’t been for Gwen’s inheritance the whole thing wouldn’t have been possible. He wanted to make a go of it for her sake … wanted to succeed. But there were times when he felt like giving up altogether.