A Painted Doom (32 page)

‘Angela had another brother. What happened to him?’

Terry shrugged. ‘No idea. I heard he’d gone abroad and died. Went away and never came back. Not that he was missed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t mean nothing.’

‘What was the brother’s name?’

‘James. Look, I’ve got to get on, so if there’s no news of Lewis …’

Wesley and Rachel knew when they were being dismissed. But there wasn’t much they could do about it. At least now they had
a name for Jonny’s half brother.

‘I suppose he’s got enough to think about with Lewis,’
said Rachel as they climbed into the car.

‘Mm,’ Wesley answered quietly. But he wasn’t convinced by Rachel’s suggestion. Terry Hoxworthy had been hiding something –
and Wesley intended to find out what it was.

‘I think we should check on the rest of Angela’s family,’ Rachel said as Wesley slowed the car. ‘I’d like to see if there
are any other Simms in the area: perhaps the brother didn’t die; perhaps he’s still living round here. And Terry Hoxworthy
either doesn’t know or isn’t telling. I was thinking of looking through the electoral register.’

‘Rather you than me,’ said Wesley, bringing the car to a halt.

‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking of doing it myself,’ she replied with a smug grin. ‘Delegation’s a wonderful thing.’

Wesley glanced in the direction of the church and saw Neil Watson disappearing into the porch.

‘I’ve just spotted someone I want a word with,’ he said casually. ‘You get back to the station. I’ll call when I want picking
up.’

Rachel gave him a reproachful look. She knew exactly what he was up to. ‘I’ll come with you. It’ll save time in the long run.’

Wesley nodded. She was probably right. He had a desk laden with paperwork but half an hour wouldn’t make much difference.

When they entered the church they found Neil standing in front of the Doom, talking to another man; a man Wesley recognised
from a number of TV dramas and films.

Neil swung round when he heard the church door open.

‘Wes,’ he called. ‘Come and meet Jeremy Sedley. He’s helping out with this history evening. Jeremy, this is a friend of mine,
Wesley Peterson. He’s a police inspector but don’t hold it against him. Are you and Pam coming to this history evening next
Saturday, by the way?’

‘I haven’t got much choice. Gerry’s singing with the
choir. He’s been handing out tickets all over the office.’ He shook Jeremy Sedley’s outstretched hand. ‘Delighted to meet
you, Mr Sedley.’ He introduced Rachel, who greeted Sedley shyly, overawed for once by the man’s fame.

‘Jeremy’s interested in local history and he’s volunteered to narrate the history evening,’ said Neil.

Wesley made a mental note to tell Pam: she would be impressed. ‘Good,’ was all he could think of to say.

Neil leaned towards him. ‘I was planning to come round to your place to drop off that book Anne found for me – the Merrivale
letters. I thought you’d like to see them.’

‘Thanks.’ Wesley hoped he’d have time to read it. Then he remembered that Jonny Shellmer had enquired about that very book.
Perhaps he’d make time.

Neil turned to the Doom. ‘I was just looking at this writing above the heads of a couple of these figures on the painting.
It’s very faint but you can just make it out. I think it’s names. Tamar seems to be one as far as I can make out – the river
east of here. The other one begins with A but it’s very faint. But so would you be if you were hidden away for five centuries.’
Neil chuckled at his own joke. Rachel watched him stony faced.

But Wesley had his notebook out and was copying what he could make out of the mysterious inscription while Rachel looked on
disapprovingly.

‘So you live in Derenham now, Mr Sedley?’ Wesley said pleasantly when he had put his notebook away.

‘Yes. I’ve been here two years now and I’m becoming quite attached to the place. I still have a little pied-à-terre in London,
of course, for when I’m working there. But there’s a lot of location work nowadays – I was filming up near Tavistock the other
day.’

‘It’s good of you to give up your time to help the village hall appeal,’ said Rachel meekly.

‘Least I could do, dear lady,’ he replied with charm. For a moment Wesley though he was going to take hold of Rachel’s hand
and kiss it.

Wesley asked him, ‘Did you know Jonny Shellmer?’

‘Er, no. Our paths never crossed,’ he answered quickly. ‘Look, I really must be off. It was nice to meet you, Inspector Peterson,
Sergeant Tracey. I do hope we meet again soon.’ He turned and marched quickly out of the church.

‘He’s in a bit of a hurry,’ observed Neil.

Wesley smiled innocently. ‘Was it something I said?’

Hal Lancaster loved old manuscripts. The feel of parchment against his fingers excited him as he thought of all the hands
they had passed through and the eyes that had read them. He loved the link they provided with flesh-and-blood people from
centuries ago. He often wondered what they would have said if they could see where their writings had ended up: being held
by an ageing, overweight man, born in a land not even discovered when they were written, sitting in a well-appointed, centrally
heated hotel room, with luxuries way beyond the imagination of anyone living in the Middle Ages. It seemed the police had
cleared him for the moment: they had asked him to stay in Tradmouth and, as he fancied a change, he had checked into the best
hotel in town.

But there was one drawback to Lancaster’s hobby, something he never liked to admit to fellow collectors. He loved to possess
the precious documents but he had terrible trouble deciphering what they actually said. He had tried many times to sit down
and read the things, but the archaic handwriting usually defeated him and he’d run out of patience. And if they were in Latin
he stood no chance.

He managed to bluff and sound knowledgeable to other collectors. And he’d managed to fool the police by repeating what the
boy had told him about the Merrivale letters. His image as a connoisseur of old manuscripts had been maintained. If you spoke
about anything with enough confidence, people would always believe you were an expert.

But he still had no idea of exactly what the Merrivale
letters contained, and he had been too proud to ask the boy for the transcription he said he had made.

Now he was sitting in his room with some time on his hands, so he put on the white cotton gloves he always wore when handling
such things and took the pile of letters from their resting place.

For the first time in his collecting career, Hal Lancaster persevered, and two hours later had managed to decipher the Merrivale
letters. And the story they were telling – especially the last ones – was turning out to be as interesting as any Hollywood
movie.

My well beloved wife,

I rejoice at the news of John’s betrothal to the widow More, although I worry at what you tell me of his behaviour of late.

I have a good price for our wool from a Bristol merchant, better than the price in Tradmouth, and all the talk is of the peace
and good trade the new King Edward hath brought to our land. I hear news that the old King’s supporters are in France with
the Earl of Richmond, but I feel it is best that we tend our lands and look to our prosperity.

Do not concern yourself overmuch with young Edmund’s affection for his sister and the strangeness in his manner. It is good
that he should feel so protective toward her. It may be that he is concerned lest her half-brother John distress her in any
way. Do not fret about what you saw between them. It was only mere foolishness between two young people. Elizabeth was ever
a girl of good sense and she knows right from wrong.

I return in a week and I pray God to keep you in His care.

Your affectionate husband

Richard

Written at Bristol this nineteenth day of August 1471

Wesley Peterson emerged from his bath, just as the water was beginning to lose its heat. He hadn’t arrived home until eight
o’clock, and he and Pam had sent out for a Chinese takeaway: sometimes he felt that he was keeping the Golden Dragon in business
single handed.

He donned his dressing gown and went downstairs, thinking it was time he and Pam spent some time together. He went into the
kitchen and took a bottle of red wine from the rack, not forgetting the corkscrew and two glasses.

But when he walked into the living room, he saw that Pam was stretched out on the sofa with her eyes closed. Wesley smiled
to himself: so much for an evening of conjugal bliss.

He picked up his notebook from the sideboard, then sat down in the armchair and began to study the page on which he’d copied
down the faint writing he’d seen painted on the Doom. He sipped his wine as he tried to rearrange the letters. But nothing
worked. Wesley had always considered himself quite good at crosswords and puzzles, but this one defeated him.

He closed his eyes and began to think, setting his mind running on different lines. Perhaps it wasn’t a puzzle. Perhaps it
was something that would have been obvious to the villagers of Derenham in the Middle Ages. The Doom was intended to be displayed
in a church, after all, and its message must have been meant for everyone. Then a possibility struck him and he stood up and
headed for the bookcase.

But before he could reach his destination the telephone began to ring. He picked it up and heard his mother-inlaw’s giggling
voice on the other end. He looked across at Pam; the telephone had disturbed her and she was sitting up, rubbing her eyes.
Wesley felt annoyed with Della for waking her, and all thoughts of the mysterious code fled from his head. The Doom would
keep its secret for a while longer.

*

Carys Pugh, receptionist at the Ty Mawr Hotel, Harlech, North Wales, which nestled in the shadow of the town’s great medieval
castle, picked up the telephone and dialled the number of her local police station.

If that nice elderly couple from Liverpool hadn’t left that day’s copy of a national newspaper in the residents’ lounge, and
if she hadn’t picked it up and carried it back to her desk with the intention of reading it when she had a quiet moment, Carys
would never have seen the photograph. She would never have known that one of the guests staying in the opulent luxury of the
Ty Mawr – an ideal base from which to explore the beauties of Gwynedd – was not all he seemed to be.

If what the paper said was true, the police needed to be told as soon as possible. She had just explained her predicament
to the policewoman on the other end of the line when the visitor in question walked into reception and Cary’s conversation
switched effortlessly into Welsh while she smiled at the visitor as she handed over the room key. There was no way the visitor
had understood what she was saying. And the police said they’d send someone round within the hour. No problem.

The next morning, as Gerry Heffernan was complaining loudly about the lack of a decent cup of tea, Wesley trawled through
the files to see if there was anything he’d missed. Angela Simms, according to a message on his desk from PC Wallace at the
hospital, was stable but still hadn’t come round. Wesley wondered whether Steve had discovered anything about Angela’s brother,
James, yet. But Steve wasn’t known for his dynamic powers of deduction, so he wasn’t holding his breath.

Wesley’s telephone began to ring. He picked up the receiver, hoping it wasn’t more bad news. A crazed gunman opening fire
in the Red Bull perhaps. Anything seemed possible in the village of Derenham these days.

‘This is Sergeant Emrys Jones of North Wales police,
Harlech, here. Is that the officer dealing with the Lewis Hoxworthy investigation?’ The voice was deep, male and decidedly
Welsh.

Wesley answered in the affirmative.

‘I’ve got a nice surprise for you. The missing lad has turned up on our patch. Staying in a posh hotel near the castle, he
was; one of the staff recognised him from a newspaper picture. He told everyone he was one of those young Internet millionaires;
took the best room and everything. Got to hand it to the lad, he had ’em all fooled. We’ve got him here at the station now
and he tells us that he’s been doing a tour of Welsh castles. Got a thing about castles, he has.’

Heffernan emerged from his office and noticed the smile spreading across Wesley’s face as he covered the mouthpiece and shouted
across the office. ‘Lewis Hoxworthy’s turned up alive and well. He’s in North Wales.’

A cheer went up in the CID office. Happy faces for a change, and an excuse for a few celebratory drinks in the Fisherman’s
Arms later on. But Lewis Hoxworthy wasn’t out of the woods yet. He had some questions to answer about the gun found in his
bedroom.

As Wesley put the phone down, Steve strolled into the office, perplexed by the general mood of merriment. ‘What’s up?’ he
whispered to a grinning WPC Trish Walton. She told him, and he allowed the corners of his mouth to twitch upward.

Steve was just about to make for his desk when Gerry Heffernan spotted him and beckoned him over. ‘Oi, Poirot. I want a word.’

Steve resisted the temptation to brush against Trish’s ample chest and slouched over to the chief inspector’s office. Wesley
was standing by his boss, waiting.

‘Don’t suppose you managed to find out anything about this James Simms.’ Gerry Heffernan had known Steve for too long to expect
miracles.

Steve’s face flushed red as he took out his notebook. ‘As
a matter of fact I haven’t, sir. Or rather I have found out something, but I don’t know if it’s important.’

Heffernan looked at Wesley and rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means I’ve not found anything about anyone called James Simms. Nothing at all.’

Heffernan grunted. This wasn’t what he had hoped for.

But Steve hadn’t finished. ‘Then I went along to the
Tradmouth Echo
and looked through their back copies to see if there was any mention of anyone involved in this case. I reckoned it’d probably
be back in the mid–1960s so I started with 1964 and when I reached 1966 …’ He hesitated, a smug smile playing around his lips.
‘I found something interesting. There was no mention of Jonny Shellmer or anyone called James, but there was a report on the
third of August 1966 of a girl nearly drowning in the River Trad at Derenham. The girl’s name was Angela Simms and the boy
who jumped in and rescued her was none other than Terry Hoxworthy.’