An Unhallowed Grave (24 page)

He didn't invite the policemen to sit down but leaned against the windowsill waiting, staring at the painting that stood on an easel in the corner of the room: a painting of Pauline Brent, naked, lying on a scarlet chaise-longue. Although the pose was abandoned, the face of the subject was strangely innocent; Madonna-like eyes stared into the distance as if contemplating eternity.

Wesley found his own eyes drawn to the painting as if this, rather than any snapshot, caught the essence of the woman who had been Pauline Quillon. Charles took a long drink of whisky, emptying the glass, and poured himself another.

Heffernan began, blunt. "Your ex-wife won't give you an alibi. She says she hasn't seen you for three months."

Charles shuffled his feet. "I told a stupid l
ie.
I thought Linda would cover for me once I'd explained to her but her bloody phone's been on the blink ... I couldn't get through."

Wesley thought the man was an optimist. Linda Brown hadn't seemed the type to lie for a man who'd let her down so badly. "So where were you last Friday night?"

Charles hesitated. "It was a nice night so when Pauline said she wasn't coming round I went for a drive. I stopped for a drink in Whitely ... pub called the Wheatsheaf. I don't know whether anyone saw me."

"Were you on your own?"

"Yes, of course. I'd have a witness otherwise." It might have been Wesley's imagination but he thought the artist was lying.

"Have you a photograph of yourself we could show to the staff at the Wheatsheaf to confirm your story?"

Charles Stoke-Brown reddened. "Can't you just take my word for it? They won't remember. They were busy."

"It's surprising what people remember, sir," said Heffernan pointedly.

Charles rooted through the chaotic interior of a paint-stained cupboard and produced a tattered photograph of himself with his wife in happier days.

"Thank you, sir," said Wesley as he took it. "We'll let you have it back, of course."

Charles drained his glass and poured another drink, waving the bottle vaguely at Wesley, who shook his head. He raised the glass to his lips then, as an afterthought, held it towards Pauline's picture, as if toasting it. "Here's to the family curse," he said obscurely.

"You're a descendant of the de Stokes, I believe?"

The artist looked up. "How do you know that?" Realisation dawned. "I suppose Linda told you. She called it my obsession. At the time my research into the family offered a diversion from my life as a suburban schoolteacher. Lord of the manor." He spoke the words with heavy irony. "The past provided an escape from my dull little existence. Can you understand that?"

Wesley nodded. "Is that your family's coat of arms?" he asked, pointing at the shield on the wall, the eagle and the ship.

"That's right. How did you know?"

"I recognised it from the Manor. There's one carved over the door. So you know about the family's history?"

"A fair amount."

At that point Gerry Heffernan decided to drop his bombshell. "Did you know Pauline Brent wasn't who she said she was? She'd been in prison for murdering a baby."

Charles stared at Pauline's picture, shaking his head. "No. That's not true. She was one of the gentlest people I've known. It can't be true." He took a desperate gulp of whisky.

"I'm afraid it is. Her real name was Pauline Quillon."

Charles sat in silence for a few moments, taking it in. When he spoke he sounded calm, thoughtful. "She asked me once if you had to produce a birth certificate when you got married. I didn't take much notice... I thought she was pushing things so I avoided the subject. I never thought anything of it at the time but she seemed worried about it. And she'd been acting a bit strangely just before she died ... said there was something she had to sort out. But it's rubbish." He waved his glass at them. "I can't believe Pauline would kill anyone ... especially not a baby. If you'd known her

"So you knew nothing about this?"

"No. She said the past wasn't important and I agreed with her. She never spoke about it and I never asked." He looked up hopefully. "Maybe she was wrongly convicted

"That remains to be seen, sir." Heffernan nodded to his sergeant. It was time to go. "Thank you, sir," he said with finality. "We'll be in touch." They began to walk towards the door.

"Just one thing before you go, Sergeant." Wesley turned. "There's a policewoman, a DC, er ... Tracey, is it? If you see her would you ask her if she's thought about my proposition? I asked her to model for me you see, and ..."

"I'll mention it if I see her, sir," Wesley said, suppressing a grin.

"What was all that about?" asked Gerry Heffernan as they left the mill.

"Just Rachel being offered a career move. Stoke-Brown looking for a new model. Off with the old and on with the new," said Wesley, cryptic.

"The randy old goat," was Heffernan's only reply.

Wesley sat down to a meal of sausage and chips. Pam, who had already eaten, sat watching him. She looked drawn and worried.

"How's the case going?" she asked.

"We've just found out that our murder victim was a convicted child killer ... released from prison fifteen years ago and changed her name. She started a completely new life under a new identity: that's why she's been so hard to pin down."

Pam leaned forward, interested. "So you'll interview the people involved in her case ... the child's family?"

"That's the first thing. We've had those details from the Home Office. The crime was committed in the next county. Dorset -Lyme Regis. The local police there are sending someone over with the file first thing tomorrow."

"It's bound to be the parents or some other relative... just think how we'd feel if anything happened to Michael. I'd happily string up anyone who harmed him, wouldn't you?"

"Maybe." He looked at his son, who was kicking happily on his play-mat, directing his wide, toothless smiles at his adoring parents. "But whoever killed Pauline also killed a teenage lad from the village ... would a grief-stricken parent do that, do you think?"

Pam shrugged and shook her head, preoccupied. Wesley thought it was time he tackled her. Something was wrong and he needed to find out what it was. "What's the matter, Pam?" he asked gently. "You've been worried about something. Look, I know I've not been here much because of this case, but

"It's nothing." She paused, considering her next words. "I went to see a child minder today, from that list they gave me. She ..."

The doorbell rang. The moment was lost. Pam hurried away to answer it. Wesley heard voices in the hall and strained to hear what was said. He heard the words 'any news yet?" and the newcomer reply that she had asked but was still waiting to hear. Pam came back into the room with Anne, the librarian.

"Hello, Wesley. Nice to see you again."

"Had any luck with the de Stokes?"

"Oh, them. As a matter of fact

The doorbell interrupted her. Pam made no move so it was left to Wesley to answer the door. Neil stood on the doorstep grinning, a carrier bag in his hand. "Hi. Just thought I'd bring you up to date with things. Can I come in?"

Wesley stood to one side and Neil found his way to the living room. He stopped when he saw Anne. Wesley introduced them and could tell that Neil was looking at the librarian appreciatively. Anne was widowed, he remembered ... and Neil had been in need of the love of a good woman for years. There could be something in the air... even Gerry Heffernan was escorting Mrs. Green to the Ring o' Bells.

Neil turned to Wesley. "I came to show you this. It's about our Jesse tree." He handed the ancient account book over to Wesley very carefully. Wesley carried it over to the table and read the entry while Neil explained it to Pam and Anne.

"I wonder what this mysterious carving was. And would you know if you found it?"

"I think so. AH the statues we've found so far have been descendants of Jesse ... just what you'd expect. There's usually Christ in glory at the top. We've still to find that so there's more digging to do yet. We hope to find the whole lot eventually and maybe restore them to the church ... just temporarily so the whole thing can be photographed in situ."

"Why not leave them in the church?" said Anne, "After all, that's what they were made for."

"I think the powers that be would like them safe and sound in a museum."

"That's a shame," said Anne with sincerity. "I'd love to see the statues you've found."

Neil rose to the bait. "They're in Exeter for conservation. I'll take you over there one day if you like."

"Thanks. I work in the library part time at the moment but I'm free on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays." Anne stopped herself, hoping she wasn't sounding too keen. Pam and Wesley exchanged looks.

"Right, then. I'll arrange something." Neil changed the subject. If he had a captive librarian, he might as well make use of her knowledge. "I've been going through some old documents at Stokeworthy Manor. Do you know if there are any translations of the medieval manorial court rolls for Stokeworthy? They all seem to be there but they're impossible to read." It was a long shot, but it was worth a try.

Anne smiled with satisfaction. "That Charles Stoke-Brown was asking for a translation. He said he was researching the de Stoke family. We don't have a copy in Tradmouth but there's one in Exeter, written by a local antiquary last century. There could be more copies in private hands, of course."

"Maybe Thewlis has got one," Neil suggested.

"You can always ask him," said Wesley with a wry smile.

"I might wait till he's out and ask his wife. She might be a bit more sympathetic to the cause. If I don't get any joy, I'll dig out the Exeter copy. Fancy a drink, Wcs?" Neil remembered his manners. "Or anyone else?" he added, looking at Anne.

"I've got to get back," Anne explained. "I've left the kids at my mum's."

Neil found it hard to hide his disappointment: he assumed he had misread the situation. "I'd better be off, then. I said I'd meet Matt and Jane at the Tradmouth Arms. Can I tempt you, Wcs?"

"Not tonight, thanks," Wesley said, sensitive to Pam's frosty stare. "I'd better get an early night. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

The constable from Dorset arrived at the incident room first thing bearing two bulky box files. He apologised for their dusty appearance but explained that they had been lying in the station cellars for thirty years. Refreshed by a cup of freshly brewed constabulary tea, he wished everyone luck and departed for home.

Gerry Heffernan bore down on the files like a ravenous lion. Wesley and Rachel stood behind him, trying to glimpse the papers over his shoulder. There was a lot of material: pathology reports, witness statements. Heffernan turned the pages slowly, taking in the information, pointing out the salient details to his sergeant. A six-month-old baby boy had died while in the care of his young nanny, Pauline Quillon. The family's housekeeper, a Mrs. Piert, had provided the bulk of the prosecution evidence. It had been a warm summer day and Pauline Quillon had had sole charge of the two children, the baby and his elder brother, aged seven. They had been in the garden for a while when Pauline came rushing back to the house in a panic. The baby was unconscious and wouldn't wake up. Mrs. Piert ran back with Pauline to see to the baby, but by the time they reached him he was obviously dead. An ambulance was called and the parents told. The next day a postmortem was held and the police became involved. It seemed that the baby's head had been banged hard against a tree. There was even bark embedded in its skull. Pauline, the only person present, was arrested, tried and found guilty of murder.

"An open-and-shut case," Heffernan concluded.

"Except that Pauline denied it... and kept denying it. Perhaps she couldn't face what she'd done."

"Or she was telling the truth. Where were the parents while all this was going on?" The inspector searched through the files. "Here we are. The father was in the garden dead-heading the roses and the mother was lying down upstairs with a headache."

"So they were both about. Did Pauline leave the baby unsupervised at any time?"

"Looks like it. Here. She went back to the house to get a drink for the baby, she said. Then she found the child unconscious when she returned. Mrs. Piert says in her statement that she was in the kitchen all the time and Pauline didn't return to the house. No drink was found near the baby, which indicates that Pauline must have been lying."

"Where was the elder child?"

"I can't see any mention of him." Heffernan flicked through the statements. "But then I haven't had a proper look yet. Here, Rach, you have a look through these. See if you can pinpoint where everyone was at the time of the baby's death." He handed the papers to Rachel.

"So you think this Pauline might have been innocent?" said Rachel, sceptical.

"Probably not but it's worth considering." Gerry Heffernan sat back and patted his belly. "Get us a coffee, will you, Rach. I need something to wake me up."

Rachel put the papers back on the desk with controlled resentment. She had not joined the force to make coffee for men. Wesley gave her a sympathetic look.

"How did your date with Mrs. Green go?" he asked when Rachel was out of earshot.

Gerry Heffernan did not look the type of man to blush, but Wesley noticed a definite reddening of his chubby cheeks. "Er, it was just a drink, Wcs ..."

"Have you arranged any more, er ... drinks?"

"Not yet." Rachel returned with a cracked village hall cup full of cheap instant coffee and placed it firmly on her boss's desk, spilling the muddy liquid over some files. Heffernan looked up at her nervously and said nothing. Rachel took the statements about the baby's death over to her desk and sat down. "What's up with Rach today?"

Wesley smiled and shrugged. One day, perhaps, he'd explain the world of gender politics to his hapless boss, but now probably wasn't the time. After a few minutes Wesley returned to his own desk to make a start on his mountainous paperwork, only to be joined by Rachel. She sat on the edge of the desk and leaned forward, excited.