An Unhallowed Grave (11 page)

"And he's settled here?"

"In this age of electronic communications you can run a business empire from anywhere. He also likes to dabble in the local economy put something back into the community by helping to create jobs, he says. There's this holiday development, that place in Worthy Lane; and I've heard he's got a stake in those medieval banquets held in Tradington Hall once a month. God knows what they're like," Neil added with the derision of the professional historian. "All jesters with microphones and serving wenches chewing gum with their bra straps showing. We've been offered free tickets: I reckon it's a bribe."

"If you don't find anything valuable, you get to fondle a few buxom wenches." Gerry Heffernan sniggered. He turned to his sergeant. "Come along, Wcs. Time we were off." He began to make for the trees. "We'll take a short cut."

"He's a laugh, that boss of yours," said Neil to Wesley as the inspector disappeared into the wood.

Wesley rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it. I'll see you later, Neil."

He soon caught up with the inspector, and they strolled in the dappled sunlight that penetrated the small but ancient wood.

"And he wants to tear all this lot down, does he?" said Heffernan with disbelief. "They're right when they say the worst criminals are the ones wearing posh suits."

"I didn't know you were an eco-warrior on the quiet, sir."

Before Heffernan could answer, a disembodied voice greeted them from above.

"Hi, pigs."

Heffernan looked up. "How are you doing, Squirrel?"

"Not bad. Forces of oppression ready for a confrontation yet?"

"Not us, mate. If it was up to me, I'd keep the trees. Do you see most of the comings and goings round here?"

"Depends where I am. We move about. Why?"

"On Friday night did you see anyone else come up the drive apart from the murdered woman? Think carefully."

"No ... but then I wasn't watching the drive all evening." He hesitated. "Hang on, there was someone else. A couple of lads just hanging round ... coming and going all evening. One had a ponytail, the other had dyed his hair blond. I've seen them before. They often hang around."

"How many of you are, er ... up the trees, like?"

"That'd be giving away strategic information."

"Well, can you ask around? See if anyone else saw anything?"

Squirrel tilted his head to one side, a gesture that made him look even more pixie-like, and thought for a while. "Okay. I'll ask around." With a rustle of foliage, he disappeared from view.

"Still thinking of joining him, sir?" Wesley teased.

"If I was thirty years younger, who knows."

They had reached the gravel led drive, and as they emerged from the trees the Manor came into view. Wesley stopped.

Stokeworthy Manor was no flashy stately home, likely to be full of ornate French furniture and marble pillars. To Wesley it was something far more desirable: a low, stone-built medieval manor house. The original great hall stood in the centre, with huge oriel windows to let the sunlight flood in. The stone additions to each side appeared to have grown organically from their central root over a couple of centuries. The Georgians hadn't got their tasteful hands on it; neither had the Victorians added their over-the-top Gothic fussiness. It was perfect. If Wesley could have chosen his ideal house to live in, this would, most certainly, have been it.

"Nice," said Heffernan. "Not too grand. Just right." His taste in architecture matched his sergeant's. "Lucky old Thewlis."

Heffernan stood beneath a great carved coat of arms an eagle flying above a ship and hammered on the ancient oak front door. It was answered by a tall woman in her thirties: her clothes were fashioned with elegant simplicity, her long, horsey face made attractive by a skilful hairdresser and the expert application of make up. She looked them up and down, wary but not hostile.

Heffernan flashed his warrant card. "Police, madam." He recited their names. "Mrs. Thewlis, is it?" The woman nodded. "We'd like a word with your husband, if he's free."

The inspector was certainly on his best behaviour, Wesley thought. "Madam' instead of 'love' was virtually unprecedented. Caroline Thewlis opened the door wide to let them in. Philip Thewlis, if rumours about his humble origins were true, had certainly married above himself socially: his wife had true class; that was something money could buy, but only up to a point. She asked them politely if they'd mind waiting in the great hall. Wesley thanked her. He was longing to have a good look at the place.

Wesley had seen grander great halls, larger and more elaborately decorated, but Stokeworthy Manor's was a gem. The great beamed roof rose above them, with a vent in the centre to take out the smoke once produced by the hearth in the middle of the floor. Rich tapestries hung from the walls; the floor was stone, worn over the centuries, covered here and there with antique Persian rugs. The furniture was lovingly polished oak, either several hundred years old or extremely good reproductions. The effect was one of richness and light, the latter provided by the huge oriel window in the corner, a pillar of sunlight reaching up to the roof.

"Please, gentlemen, sit down." The newcomer indicated a pair of comfortably worn sofas arranged to face the great Tudor fireplace set in the south wall. He was a short man who reminded Wesley somewhat of the portraits of Napoleon Bonaparte in his later years another enterprising man with designs on more than a business empire. Like Napoleon, Philip Thewlis wore his thinning hair swept forward to hide the ravages of time. "How can I help you?"

Gerry Heffernan found himself sinking into the sofa; he hoisted himself upright. "We're investigating the death of a woman called Pauline Brent. She lived in the village ..."

Thewlis held up a hand to stop him. "I think I know what this is about, Inspector. A lady of that name paid me a visit on Friday night. Not being privy to village gossip, I've only just found out about her unfortunate death. I was going to get in touch with you later today."

"Why did she visit you?"

"To accuse me of seducing my children's nanny quite an unjustified accusation, as it happens. I really don't know how she got hold of the idea ... it's quite ridiculous." He sat back, relaxed, no hint of nervousness in his manner. To Wesley he looked like a man innocent of the charge; but then he had to remember that intelligence and guile are required for success in business.

"Can you tell us in your own words what happened, sir?"

"Certainly. I made no secret of it, even to my wife. Miss, er ... Brent turned up at the front door at about nine thirty. She asked if she could have a private word with me."

"How did she seem?"

Philip Thewlis considered the question. "Calm ... but angry under the surface, I should say. Brimming with righteous indignation. My family were in the drawing room. I saw her in here. She sat where the sergeant's sitting now." He smiled at Wesley. "I must say she was reasonable ... no hysterics or anything like that. She just said she'd heard from a reliable source that I was having an affair with our nanny, Gemma, and that Gemma's family were very worried. She gave me a lecture on how vulnerable young girls in Gemma's position are. She made me feel quite guilty, even though I'd done nothing. I can assure you, I've never touched the girl." Another charming smile. "Of course, I told her very politely that she was mistaken. She'd been misinformed by somebody. Then I told her how commendable it was that someone should be so concerned about a young girl's welfare ... very rare nowadays."

"Did you mean it?"

He shrugged. "It seemed to keep her happy. By the time she left she couldn't apologise enough. I asked her if she wanted to confirm my version of events with Gemma herself, but she assured me that there was no need. She seemed perfectly happy when she left."

Wesley looked at Thewlis, who was smiling benignly. "Did anyone else witness your conversation?"

"No. But I told my wife what had happened as soon as she'd left. We laughed about it."

"Did you mention this to Gemma?"

"I didn't think it necessary. I felt it might have embarrassed her."

"How long did Miss Brent stay?"

"Half an hour at the most ... probably less. As soon as she found she'd made a mistake, she was only too anxious to get away."

"Did you see her go?"

"Yes. I saw her to the door and she walked off down the drive."

"Will your wife confirm all this?"

"Of course. Do you want to see her?" He stood up, ready to summon her.

Heffernan realised that speaking to the woman would be a waste of time. From her husband's calm manner, he guessed that, should anything untoward need covering up, Caroline Thewlis had been well briefed. "No, sir. That won't be necessary just now. If we could talk to Gemma ... find out how these stories got about..."

"I'm afraid she's somewhere out in the grounds with the children at the moment. But if you'd like to telephone some time, I'll make sure she's available to speak to you," Thewlis said, charming and reasonable himself.

"Thank you, sir," said Wesley. "Congratulations on your new appointment, by the way. I read about it in the paper."

Thewlis smiled modestly. "Thank you, Sergeant. One likes to make a contribution to the country ... give something back," he said with apparent sincerity.

Heffernan stood up to go. "Having a bit of trouble with those protesters in your woods, are you, sir?" he asked casually.

Thewlis's lips tightened. "They'll be no trouble. Once this damned dig's finished we'll get rid of them easily enough."

"I get the impression this development's not popular in the village," Heffernan said innocently.

"What some people don't realise is that I'm boosting the local economy, creating jobs ..."

Wesley and Heffernan exchanged looks. Thewlis's charming manner had disappeared and had been replaced by something far harder. Heffernan opened his mouth to speak.

"Quite, sir," said Wesley with finality before his boss said something regrettable that would be reported to the Chief Constable over dinner. "Thank you very much. We'll see ourselves out."

"What did you make of him?" Wesley asked as they crunched their way down the gravel drive.

"Smarmy bugger. How many jobs do a few holiday cottages create? The builders'll come in from some big city and the types that buy these places hardly use the village shop, do they? And what was all that about a new appointment?"

"He's going to be head of some government council ... something to do with children."

Heffernan made no comment. "Do you think he's having it off with the nanny?"

"Wouldn't put it past him. And we've only got his word for it that Pauline left here alive."

"I think we should have a word with this Gemma. He said she was in the grounds."

"It's a big place. She could be anywhere."

By good fortune they heard the sound of a child shouting. "No, no... get away. I hate you... Gemma, he hit me... he hit me ..." The voice was spoilt, whinging.

"Oh, shut up, you bloody little brat. Just behave or I'll tell your mum about before." A young woman's exasperated voice drifted over from the trees at the side of the drive ... a young woman bored and at the end of her tether. Heffernan smiled triumphantly. They had found Gemma Matherley.

She emerged from the trees, the children in her wake engaged in what looked like a wrestling match. She turned to them. "Stop that, will you. Amanda, get up. Look at the state of your bloody dress."

Her words seemed to have little effect on the children, who continued their vicious battle. When she saw the two police officers she stopped. "The grounds aren't open today. You'll have to go," she said insolently, chewing gum while she spoke.

"Police, love. We're here enquiring about the murder of a Pauline Brent. Her body was found in the churchyard on Friday night. You're Gemma Matherley, I presume?"

"Yeah." The girl turned to her charges, who were now engaged in a tug-of-war using the little girl's cardigan as the rope. "Look, I can't be long. I've got the kids ..."

"We just want to ask a few questions, that's all. Nothing to worry about," said Wesley over Amanda's screams.

"Did you know Pauline Brent?"

"I wouldn't say I knew her. My gran cleaned for her and I've seen her at the doctor's. That's all."

"Did you know she came here on Friday night before she died? She came to discuss your affair with Mr. Thewlis."

"What?" The girl looked horrified, oblivious to the violent punches young Guy was inflicting on his screaming sister. "I don't know what you mean. I'm not having no affair with Philip ... nothing like that." She spoke with sincerity. Wesley was inclined to believe her. "Where did she get that one from? There was nothing going on, I swear it." She paused, thinking. "I bet it was my gran, the old bitch. She's got hold of the wrong end of the stick. She cleans here and she cleans ... cleaned ... for Miss Brent. I bet she's told her some half-baked story and the old ..." She hesitated, thinking better of slandering the dead. "Miss Brent thought she'd stick her nose in. But she got it all wrong. There's nothing going on between me and Philip ... honest."

"Were you at the house when Miss Brent called on Friday?"

"I'd have been in my room once the kids were in bed. But nobody mentioned she'd been."

"So you didn't see her at all that night?"

Gemma shook her head.

"Where is your room, Miss Matherley?" asked Wesley innocently.

"At the top of the house. Why?"

"Overlooking the drive?"

It may have been his imagination but Wesley thought he detected a change in Gemma's manner. She became more wary; on her guard.

"Yeah. Why? What are you getting at?"

"It's just that if you happened to look out of your window you might have seen Miss Brent leave. Did you?"

"No."

"Can you hear if someone's at the front door from your room?"

"Er ... not really." She turned to the children, who were, by now, both in tears, the worst of the battle over. "I've got to get back ... clean these two up before their mum sees them." She turned to the children. "Come on. Get up off the bloody floor, will you. Look at the state of you. What have you done with that cardigan? Look at it, all stretched."