An Unhallowed Grave (13 page)

The phone on Wesley's desk shrieked into life. He rushed over to answer it. After a couple of minutes he returned to Heffernan, an expression of eager anticipation on his face. "That was Neil, sir..."

"Oh, what did he want? Doesn't he know we've got a murder case on? And this missing lad. Tell him you're busy."

"I told him I'd go round to the dig. They've found a body. He's asked me to ring Colin Bowman."

"Cheeky bugger." Heffernan sighed deeply. "I suppose we'd better drop in on our way to visit Mrs. Matherley. Let's hope it doesn't add to our workload, eh."

There was quite a crowd around the trench where the skeleton lay, half exposed against the sandy soil. Jane and Matt were working with trowels and brushes, carefully but quickly. A couple of trusted students were helping them, looking nervous about the responsibility. Neil stood on the side of the trench, chatting to Colin Bowman but shooting an occasional supervisory glance at his students. It seemed like an age before enough of the skeleton was exposed to allow Colin to make an initial assessment. By that time Wesley and Heffernan had arrived.

Gerry Heffernan led the way. "What have we got, Colin?"

Colin Bowman looked up, an amiable smile on his face. "Hello there, Gerry. Good to see you. In answer to your question, we appear to have another hanging ..."

"Right, then. Let the dog see the rabbit. Excuse me. Police." He pushed his way through the group of gaping students. Then, for the first time, he saw the object of all the attention. He turned to Wesley. "I thought he said it was a body, not a ruddy skeleton."

"It's a very well-preserved skeleton, Gerry," said Dr. Bowman from the trench. "Fully articulated. She's been hanged ... more professionally this time. Clean break to the neck. She's not been laid east to west, which indicates this wasn't a standard Christian burial. If she'd died accidentally, or been murdered, she would have been buried in the churchyard. As it was, she ended up in an unhallowed grave."

"Where did you pick that one up from, Colin?" asked Heffernan, amazed at this piece of unscientific information coming from the pathologist's lips.

"Neil here. He says it's probably either a suicide or an execution. By the break to the neck I'd opt for the latter."

"Neither were buried in consecrated ground," Neil added helpfully. "And as I said before, if you remember, this was a crossroads. Suicides and criminals were often buried at crossroads. I think we've found the woman in that old village legend ... the one who gave the name to the hanging tree."

"When was all this? How old is she?"

Wesley, who had been watching and listening, fascinated, spoke. "It's hard to tell."

Colin Bowman interrupted. "If you want to know how old she was when she died, I'd say at a very rough guess she was pretty young ... late teens, early twenties. I'll be able to tell you more when I've had a proper look at her."

"No, I meant when was she hanged? How long ago? We're not looking at three years ago, anything like that, are we?"

"I don't think so," said Wesley. "Looks pretty old to me."

"We'll do radiocarbon dating on the bones," said Neil, helpfully. He picked up a plastic box and waved it in front of Wesley's nose. "She was buried with this. Looks medieval."

Wesley took the box. Inside was a small crucifix, delicately carved in marble, about twelve inches long. A thing of real beauty. "Looks like she was buried holding it. Somebody thought enough of her to leave this in her grave. Wonder why." Neil paused for a while, gazing down at the box, contemplating the mystery. Then he looked up at Wesley, fresh enthusiasm lighting up his face. "In all the excitement about the body I haven't shown you our star find." He led Wesley away from the crowd around the burial trench, over to the edge of the site where a couple of students were brushing earth off what looked like a statue lying on a length of plastic sheet. They brushed carefully, delicately, as if the thing would disintegrate like a cobweb if they used too much force. Neil said nothing but allowed his friend to examine it, awe-struck.

"Asa. It's off the Jesse tree ... it must be." Wesley could barely hide his excitement. "Where did you find it?"

"Buried in the big trench, a couple of yards away from our skeleton. It's in remarkable condition and the carving's quite masterly. It wouldn't surprise me if this was made by someone who worked on one of the cathedrals or abbeys round here. It's high-quality stuff. We've just got to find the others now."

Wesley looked up, eager. "Others? You think there are more of these?"

"I'd say there were a load of them, buried in some sort of pit. It fits in with the geophysics findings, and Matt's started to uncover another one. It's my bet the locals dug a big hole and buried them so that Henry VIII's commissioners couldn't get them and smash them up."

"Makes sense. It's absolutely amazing. If they could be restored in the church ..."

"Hang on, Wcs, we're looking at something quite unique here. I don't think a country church is really the place for something as important as this."

Wesley shrugged and made no comment. "Keep me posted, won't you. By the look of that framework in the church there must have been a dozen figures at least."

Wesley turned to go. Heffernan was waiting impatiently near the huddle of students. Satisfied that the discovered corpse was probably outside his jurisdiction, he was anxious to be away. They had a cleaning lady to interview.

Neil muttered something about the Tradmouth Arms and waved Wesley goodbye regretfully.

The inspector said nothing as they trudged past the church and into the small council estate by the side of the main road, at the opposite end of the village to the dwellings of the more comfortably off and those who used Stokeworthy as a weekend retreat. The weekenders seldom ventured this way: the council estate was strictly locals only, some families going back many generations.

The Matherleys were just such a family. And Dot Matherley lived in a one-bed roomed bungalow in the next road to her son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter, Leanne. She opened the door to the two policemen at once, almost as if she'd been waiting for them.

Tea was offered ... and accepted gratefully. After a decent interval it was Heffernan who began to ask the questions. "What can you tell us about Pauline Brent?"

Mrs. Matherley sat back, a benign smile on her face, preparing to eulogise the dead. "She was a lovely lady. Couldn't do enough for you. So considerate ... not like some I clean for."

"Do you clean for many people in the village?"

"Oh, yes. There's them up at the Manor, Miss Brent, and two of them new places on Worthy Lane Mrs. Bentley and Mrs. Wills. Though they're never there when I call ... always leaves my money in an envelope, they do."

"They must keep you busy," said Wesley, pleasantly.

She looked at him with undisguised curiosity. "Oh, they do that all right, my luv ver I'll have to look for someone else, mind, now Miss Brent's gone." Her puffy eyes began to fill with tears. She took a clean white handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and dabbed them. "Oh, it's awful what some folks do these days. Poor Miss Brent, such a nice lady ... not an enemy in the world."

"You confided in her, I believe. About your granddaughter, Gemma."

Dot looked up sharply. "How did you know that?"

Wesley didn't answer the question directly. "You told Miss Brent that she was having an affair with the owner of the Manor. Is that right?"

"I've been worried out of my head. She's only nineteen ... never been out of the village. Then this man old enough to be her father ... Some folks think they can buy anything. And our Gemma was bought, like a common whore. Miss Brent was ever so good, really sympathetic. She said she'd go up and have a word with Mr. Thewlis ... seemed quite keen to help. She said she didn't like to see those in vulnerable positions taken advantage of, that was it. She was a saint, that woman ... a saint."

"Are you sure of your facts here, love?" Heffernan chipped in. "Mr. Thewlis denies everything."

"Well, he would, wouldn't he." She leaned forward. "I've seen them ... doing it. While his wife was out." She nodded righteously.

"Actually seen them?" said Wesley, incredulous.

"Well, he covered himself up as soon as I got in the room, but she was shameless. When I think of what she was like before she went to that place. I'd have never ..."

"It was definitely Mr. Thewlis she was, er... with?"

"Who else would it be?" she said, as if the question were particularly naive. "And I bet that wife of his doesn't know ... cut above him, she is. And her with those sweet little kiddies. The things I could tell about some of the people in this village

This was more like it. Heffernan sat forward, willing her to spill her secrets. "What sort of things? Anything about Pauline Brent? Don't worry, love, you might know something that might help us catch whoever killed her."

Dot thought about this for a moment and nodded. Never had gossip been in such a good cause. "Well, I think she had a gentleman friend, if you know what I mean. Oh, she was very discreet ... didn't say anything to anyone, but' she leaned further forward and lowered her voice "I found a pair of men's underpants under the bed one day when I was cleaning."

"And you've no idea who it could have been?"

Dot Matherley shook her head.

"She worked for the doctor. Any chance it could be him?"

Dot chuckled. "Oh no, my luv ver not Dr. Jenkins. He'd never wear underpants like that." She seemed to find the idea irresistibly amusing, and it was a while before she stopped giggling like an elderly schoolgirl.

"There was no address book found in Miss Brent's house," said Wesley, regaining control of the situation. "Did she have one, do you know?"

"No. Come to think of it, she didn't. Bit odd that, isn't it?"

Wesley and Heffernan looked at one another. Each knew what the other was thinking. There was something missing in Pauline Brent's seemingly perfect life ... and that something seemed to be a past.

Wesley looked at his watch. It was nearly four o'clock ... another working Sunday for Pam to complain about. He contemplated ringing her but thought better of it. The inspector was charging ahead, making for the home of Gaz Sweeting, just two streets away from Dot Matherley's bungalow. "I want a word with this Gaz. From his description, I bet he's one of the lads Squirrel saw hanging about on Friday night. And there's the small question of the cannabis on the church path and who supplied it. Could the two lads have been with the girls when they were doing this ritual thing? There was certainly something the girls weren't telling us."

"Their true loves, you mean?" said Wesley with a wry smile.

"If they can't do better than that pair then heaven help 'em. I think even Steve Carstairs is a better bet ... oh, I don't know, though. What number does this Gaz live at?"

Wesley consulted his notebook. "Number nine."

Heffernan marched down the neat front path of 9 Stoke Gardens and rapped firmly on the front door. A thin woman with dyed blonde hair answered, her figure and dress proclaiming that she was under twenty-five but the deep lines on her face giving the lie to this. She was forty if she was a day but didn't want to admit it. When they showed their warrant cards, Mrs. Sweeting looked exasperated. "I've got two of your lot here already. What is this? A raid?"

Heffernan looked puzzled. "Can we come in, love? Nothing to worry about. We just want to ask your Gaz a few questions about his mate."

"That's what they all say," Mrs. Sweeting mumbled bitterly as she led them through to the lounge, where they found Rachel and Steve perched on the settee sipping tea. Opposite them in an armchair, making a detailed study of his feet, was Gaz, his hair dyed to match his mother's. Wesley found himself wondering if they had cosy evenings in, doing each other's hair with a bottle of bleach. He dismissed this frivolous thought as Rachel stood up. Steve, he noticed, remained seated, and was staring at him with what looked like resentment.

"We thought we were dealing with this one," Steve mumbled.

Heffernan, anxious to preserve a united police front in the presence of members of the public, spoke firmly. "We're here about something else. Have you finished, then?"

"Yes, sir," said Rachel firmly, giving Steve a nudge. "We've quite finished."

Wesley noticed that Rachel's gaze kept turning towards the mantelpiece where a small oil painting of a sailing boat stood in pride of place next to a plastic clock. It was a painting of quality, an original. It looked out of place among the tawdry modern ornaments that kept it company.

Rachel sat down again. "I'd just like to ask one more question, if that's all right." She looked to the inspector for approval and he nodded. "Where did you get that painting on the mantelpiece, Gary?"

Gaz looked up, flustered. "Can't remember. Me mum got it, didn't you, Mum." He looked desperately at his mother for confirmation.

The loyal parent nodded. She knew the answer that was expected of her. "Yeah. That's right. I bought it. Car boot sale. Okay?"

Sensing that it was useless to enquire further, Rachel stood up and glared at Steve. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Sweeting, Gary. We'll let you know if there's any news of Lee ... and you will let us know if you remember anything that might help us, won't you, Gary?"

Gaz nodded absent-mindedly. Steve moved himself slowly off the settee and followed Rachel into the hallway. Mrs. Sweeting went with them to see them safely off the premises.

Gaz was seventeen; old enough to be interviewed without the presence of his mother. Wesley made a start. "Gary, we've got a witness who saw you and Lee hanging round the village on the night Pauline Brent was killed. Were you near the churchyard?"

"Can't remember much about that night. We were out of our heads, me and Lee. Hey, you'll find Lee, won't you? I mean, he's my mate and ..."