The Shroud Maker (40 page)

‘Can I have a word?’ she said. ‘In private.’

‘OK,’ he said as he stood up. ‘We can go into Gerry’s office.’

In Gerry’s absence Rachel was acting DI reporting straight to CS Fitton. She’d postponed her wedding to Nigel until later in the year because of her new workload and Gerry’s incapacity. Wesley wondered whether this was the real reason. Sometimes, though, it was best to accept things at face value.

She followed him into the glass-fronted office and after he’d shut the door he sat down on one of the visitors’ chairs. Gerry’s worn swivel chair was standing empty at the other side of the desk.

Rachel sat down a few feet away, crossing her legs neatly. Recently they’d hardly had a chance to be alone because they’d been so busy. But there was no backing out now.

It was Rachel who spoke first. ‘Look, I know we haven’t talked about…’

‘There’s no need. It’s forgotten,’ he said quickly.

She looked down at her hands. ‘I’ve been feeling like an idiot, coming on to you like that. I’m supposed to be getting married, for God’s sake.’

Wesley said nothing. That night in Manchester was still etched on his memory. The soft knock on his bedroom door. Rachel pushing her way inside and kissing him. He was ashamed when he recalled that he’d responded to her kiss until some inner voice, whether born of his strict upbringing or his love for Pam and his children – he wasn’t sure which – had made him pull away and tell Rachel it would be best if she left. But he had felt her body pressed close to his and smelled the perfume she wore. He’d been tempted, and the memory made him feel uncomfortable.

‘You’re sure about going ahead with the wedding?’

‘Is that any of your business?’

‘I’d ask the same question if I thought any friend was having second thoughts. And I hope we’re friends.’

‘I’ve postponed it but Nigel’s going on about setting a date in the autumn. A wedding’s like a steamroller. It’s a difficult thing to stop.’

‘But you want it to stop?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘It’s better to say something now before it’s too late.’

‘Is that what you want? Do you want me to tell Nigel it’s off?’

‘No.’ He was aware that the word had sounded too emphatic. And he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. He never wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings. ‘I’m thinking of you, that’s all.’ He paused for a few seconds, searching for the right words. ‘Nigel’s a decent man and I’m sure you’ll be happy together if…’

It came as a relief when his phone started to ring. He looked at the caller display and saw that it was Gerry. ‘I’ll have to take this,’ he said to Rachel, who stood up and left the room. Wesley waited until the door was shut before he spoke.

Gerry’s small whitewashed cottage on cobbled Baynard’s Quay stood at the end of a row of much grander houses, set back slightly behind a tiny front yard. He’d bought it many years ago when he and Kathy first married but nowadays the desirable property would be well beyond a policeman’s pocket. Sam and Rosie had been raised there and when Kathy died Gerry had stayed put because he loved the house with its spectacular view of the river and the passing boats. Besides, it held too many memories for him to uproot himself and move.

Wesley opened the salt-air-rusted gate that separated Gerry’s sanctuary from the tourists strolling up and down the cobbles, enjoying one of Tradmouth’s most picturesque spots. He knocked on the door and after a few moments Gerry answered, his face lit up by a wide grin as though Wesley had rescued him from the terrible fate of tedious inactivity. Gerry’s normally round face looked gaunt and he was thinner in general; there were some who would have said that wasn’t a bad thing.

‘How are you feeling?’ Wesley asked as he stepped over the threshold.

‘All the better for seeing you, Wes.’ He led the way into the living room and Wesley offered to make coffee. Gerry waved the offer away. He wasn’t an invalid. Wesley, feeling bad about pricking Gerry’s pride by making the assumption, sat back and waited for the coffee, listening to Gerry crashing about in the kitchen.

‘Any developments?’ Gerry said as he handed Wesley the steaming mug.

‘Wentworth’s in custody awaiting trial.’

‘What about Miles Carthage? Body turned up yet?’

Wesley shook his head.

Gerry put his mug down heavily on the coffee table, spilling some of the brown liquid. He made no attempt to clear it up. ‘Think he could still be alive?’

‘Do you?’

‘I’ve been wondering about that. There’s always a possibility that he survived, you know. How’s his sister, Butcher’s wife?’

‘She’s pleading ignorance. Says she had no idea what Miles was up to.’

‘Believe her?’

‘No. But it’s a hard thing to prove. Apparently the Butchers have decided to rent a place here for the summer until their new house is ready.’

‘I called Rach first thing and she sounded stressed,’ said Gerry. ‘Shame about the wedding.’

Wesley said nothing. He and Gerry were close but there were some things he couldn’t share.

‘I’m going to the hospital for some physio this afternoon; they want me to get more movement back in this arm.’ Gerry sighed. ‘I need to get back in harness. I’m crawling up the walls stuck in here.’

Wesley looked at the boss and realised that he reminded him of a child standing outside a locked sweet shop with his nose pressed up against the window.

His phone began to ring and when he looked at the caller display he saw that it was Neil. He muttered an apology to Gerry who turned his attention to his coffee.

‘You know you said there were some old notebooks and letters in a trunk at North Lodge?’ Neil began.

Carthage had mentioned the documents just before he’d flung himself off the rock into the hungry sea. Wesley had ordered the trunk to be taken downstairs and he’d been intending to look at them. But the arrest of Wentworth and Gerry’s brush with death had driven them from his mind. ‘Yes. What about them?’

‘Chris Butcher wants to see them. He’s keen to develop a new website. Not fantasy this time. The story of Josiah Palkin-Wright and his crimes.’

‘Very appropriate.’

‘I think I might have identified those skeletons at Butcher’s place. I went to the offices of the
Tradmouth Echo
and found reports of three women going missing in Tradmouth. One in eighteen ninety-three, one the year after and the last in eighteen ninety-five. All prostitutes from the slums in Low Street. There used to be medieval houses there that had deteriorated into tenements. They were pulled down in the nineteen twenties by some vandals from the council.’

‘Have we got names for these women?’

‘Jane Carr, Nelly Trelawny and Jessie Allson. Nelly was seen in the company of Josiah Palkin-Wright shortly before she vanished but he denied all knowledge – claimed she’d just asked him the time. The boathouse that used to stand on the site of the burials belonged to Palkin-Wright so it looks like we might have ourselves a serial killer.’

‘Not my problem,’ said Wesley with relief.

‘I’m dying to have a look in that trunk. Is the house still a crime scene? Have you still got access?’

Wesley said a cautious ‘Yes.’ He knew what was coming. ‘The CSIs have finished in there so it can’t do any harm. As long as you provide a receipt for anything you take.’

He glanced at Gerry, who took another sip of coffee. ‘You’re in charge now, Wes. It’s up to you,’ he said with a casual wave of his hand. Wesley thought he detected a slight hint of sadness in his voice, the melancholy of an old king who’d just been ousted by a younger pretender, though Gerry had never been the bitter type.

Wesley told Neil he’d meet him in an hour’s time at North Lodge and stood up to leave. Gerry seemed reluctant to let him go, as though he craved company and saw a lonely afternoon stretching ahead of him. But Wesley had things to do.

The thought of entering North Lodge again made him uneasy. Even though it had been confirmed that those bodies in the basement were none of his concern, they’d been on his mind since they were found. And in his dreams he still saw those faces, those desiccated masks with hollow eyes that had seen the terrors of hell.

He picked up the keys from the station and when he arrived at the house Neil was waiting for him, a keen expression on his face. They were at the recording stage of the dig, he explained, and Butcher was financing an exhibition of the finds at the Museum.

As Wesley entered the silent hall he had an uncomfortable feeling that somebody was standing at the top of the stairs watching them. For a split second it crossed his mind that Miles Carthage might have survived and returned home. However, when he looked up, there was nobody there.

The trunk had now been moved to the bare front room and Wesley watched as Neil opened it, removed the contents and spread them out around him on the dusty floorboards, gloating like a miser counting treasure. Then Wesley saw a look of disappointment on his face.’

‘I was half expecting to find medieval stuff, primary sources he’d used for his book that should be in the archives,’ he said after a while. ‘But all this is more recent.’

‘So where did the material for his book come from?’

‘God knows. Annabel’s been looking into it and she hasn’t found any of the documents referred to in the book, apart from Palkin’s will which is safe in the cathedral archives. She’s managed to confirm that the story in
The Sea Devil
about Palkin dying while he was spying on his fourth wife is a load of rubbish. According to church records, he died in his bed. And there was no fourth wife. He’d also got it completely wrong about the second and third wives disappearing as well. They were both buried at local churches and Palkin paid for masses to be said for them at St Margaret’s. It makes you wonder what else he made up. The story about a stake being driven through Palkin’s heart wasn’t true either. Although the parish records of St Leonard’s say that his brother, Henry, was thought to have taken his own life and was buried in unconsecrated ground.’

‘No stake?’

‘There’s no mention of one. Palkin-Wright was a lousy historian.’

‘It sounds as if he lived in a fantasy world like Miles Carthage,’ said Wesley.

‘Must run in the family.’

‘What did Annabel manage to find out about Henry?’

‘Not much. The town records say he ran the ropeworks. He inherited Palkin’s fortune but he killed himself a year later. That’s all there is in the parish records. He died by his own hand and he left a widow and a son.’

He began to sort through the papers in the trunk. ‘Most of this is Victorian. Contemporary with Palkin-Wright. Hang on.’

He picked one document out with exaggerated care. It looked considerably older than the rest – ancient parchment. He frowned with concentration as he studied it, deciphering the unfamiliar script. After a while he spoke in awestruck tones. ‘Now this is the real thing. It appears to be from John Palkin to his son, Richard. He’s sending him to work in Henry’s ropeworks but it doesn’t sound as if Richard’s too happy about it.’ He read. ‘“Fear not thine uncle, though he envies me greatly and is ever in an ill humour. He desireth my fortune and yet thou shalt inherit all upon my death. Thou must make amends
with him so that we may live in amity together. This is my earnest desire.”’
Neil looked up. ‘Well, he was wrong about Richard inheriting everything. Poor lad died at the age of eighteen. Makes you wonder.’

‘What?’

‘Whether Wicked Uncle Henry was responsible. After all, with Richard gone, he became his brother’s heir.’ He thought for a few moments. ‘John Palkin’s will mentions that Henry is tormented by Satan. I suppose that could mean anything. Jealousy? A bad temper?’

‘A tendency to violence? Or some kind of mental illness that wasn’t understood in those unenlightened times?’

‘Richard died at the ropeworks. Maybe Henry was responsible and killed himself later out of remorse.’

He handed the delicate parchment to Wesley who cradled it like a newborn baby, squinting at the faded handwriting.

‘There’s a bit here about Henry being a maker of shrouds.’ Wesley smiled to himself. ‘In Shipworld the villain is known as the Shroud Maker so I wonder if this is where the idea for the character came from.’

‘It’s possible, I guess.’ Neil delved into the trunk again. ‘As far as I can see, that letter’s the only genuinely old thing in here. Wonder where Palkin-Wright got it.’

‘Don’t suppose there’s any way of finding out.’

Wesley set the document to one side carefully and joined Neil, kneeling by the trunk and sorting through the papers.

‘There are some letters in here.’ Wesley pulled out a bundle of envelopes with copperplate writing, faded to a sepia brown.

They were all addressed to the same person – a Miss Letitia Ventnor, Younger Road, Exeter. It looked very much as if they had never been posted so Miss Ventnor, whoever she was, had probably never received them.

He opened one and handed a couple to Neil. They read them and opened more, noting the writer’s increasing desperation. They were from a woman called Charlotte who was obviously Josiah Palkin-Wright’s wife. And it seemed that her marriage was no ordinary one.

Neil put his hand in the trunk and pulled out another bundle of letters, this time addressed to Mrs Charlotte Palkin-Wright at North Lodge. He opened the first, read it and passed it to Wesley. It was from Charlotte’s sister, Letitia, asking why she hadn’t been in contact. As Wesley read another, he experienced a feeling of dread. Charlotte’s letters had clearly never reached her sister. In the final letter Letitia announced that she was coming to Tradmouth and that she would call on Charlotte to see what was happening. There was nothing more after this date.