Cursed Inheritance (2 page)

‘So where are you going?’

Neil sat down, his eyes aglow with excitement. ‘I’m off to the States,’ he announced. ‘There’s an excavation at a

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place called Annetown in Virginia. Some of the first settlers landed there.’

‘The Pilgrim Fathers?’

‘No … before their time … around 1605.’

Pam smiled. Neil might be vague about most things but history was an exception. ‘How long will you be out there?’

‘Only three weeks initially. Depends on the powers that be. It’s a sort of exchange: one of their archaeologists is coming over here to see how we do things. I volunteered to take part because there’s a Devon connection. It was too good an opportunity to miss really and … ‘ He hesitated. ‘How’s, er…’ He pointed in the baby’s direction. It was typical of Neil to have forgotten her name.

‘Amelia. She’s fine. You were goingto say something? And … ?’

Neil studied his hands. The nails still bore traces of soil, an occupational hazard. After a few moments he looked up. ‘I went up to Somerset to see my grandmother last weekend.’ There was a pause and Pam wondered what was coming next. ‘She’s really ill. Cancer.’

‘Oh I’m sorry,’ Pam said automatically. ‘Should you be going to the States when … ?’

‘She wants me to go. She’s asked me to do something for her while I’m over there.’

‘What?’

Neil hesitated. ‘She’s asked me to contact someone.’

Pam sensed that Neil wasn’t altogether comfortable about . his mysterious mission and this made her curious. But before she could question him further, Amelia decided they’d talked long enough and began to howl. Neillooked, awkward; babies were uncharted territory for him. He mumbled something about having to go and took his leave, bending to kiss Pam on the cheek.

She stood up and flung her arms around him. ‘Take care,’ she whispered in his ear, ignoring Amelia’s urgent cries.

He broke away gently. ‘I’ll email you. Tell you how I

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get on. Gives Wes my regards,’ he said before walking out to his car.

Pam stood at the front door with Amelia grizzling in her arms and watched him drive off, staring at his old yellow Mini until it disappeared out of sight round the corner. And experiencing an unexpected feeling of loss.

There was a hushed air of expectancy in the CID office when Wesley and Heffernan returned. Word had got around on the ever-efficient office grapevine that the body in the river was a murder victim. But until Colin Bowman had given his definitive verdict there wasn’t much they could do. Apart from discovering the dead man’s identity and tracking down his next of kin.

Wesley was wandering back to his desk when a voice behind him made him jump.

‘Sir.’ Wesley swung round and saw DC Steve Carstairs leaning on a desk with a sheet of paper in his hand. He was wearing his black leather jacket as usual: Wesley had concluded long ago that he probably slept in it. ‘There’s been a report of a theft at a place near Derenham; calls itself a healing centre. Money and jewellery taken from a woman’s room. It sounds similar to those others. You know, the Dukesbridge health spa and that arts place outside Neston. And that cookery place in Morbay. I reckon there’s a pattern.’

Wesley looked at him, surprised. It wasn’t often Steve used his imagination.

‘Well, if you’re free you’d better get round there. Let me have a report when you get back. And get a list of residents and staff, will you? See if there’s anyone staying there who was at the other places. ‘

‘It’s Potwoolstan Hall,’ Steve said significantly with what Wesley thought might have been a wink.

Wesley looked blank. The name meant nothing to him.

But Detective Sergeant Rachel Tracey, who had overheard the conversation, took pity on him. Wesley was from

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London after all. He could hardly be expected to be familiar with every major crime that had been committed in his adopted county over the past twenty years - even one that had passed into local folklore so that the very name of the Hall was synonymous with evil and death.

She ran her fingers through her hair before she spoke, a subconscious action. ‘It’s a big old house near the river halfway between here and Neston. About twenty years ago the housekeeper there shot the family she worked for then she shot herself.’

Wesley frowned. ‘That rings a bell.’

Rachel leaned forward. ‘Every so often there’s a newspaper article or a TV programme about it. The usual .rubbish. Was it part of some satanic ritual because the woman who killed them had nailed dead crows to the doors? Was she a member of a local coven? That sort of thing.’

‘So it passed into local mythology?’ Wesley knew the public appetite for horror stories as well as the next man.

Rachel smiled. ‘You could say that.’

‘So what’s this about a healing centre?’

‘The Hall was turned into a healing and therapy centre a few years ago. Very New Age,’ she added with a slight sneer: Rachel Tracey, a farmer’s daughter, was a down-to- earth young woman who had no time for anything she considered to be silly or pretentious. ‘It stood empty for years after the murders, which is understandable, I suppose. Who’d want to live in a place where six people were killed like that?’

‘Who indeed?’ said Wesley, starting ilX> edge away. Interesting though this gruesome slice ofiiecal history was, he had present-day misdemeanours t04eal with. The corpse in the river had to be his priority before the trail, if any existed, went cold on them.

‘You could still see the bloodstains years after it happened,’ Steve said with relish. ‘I had some mates who broke in when it was empty and they … ‘

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Wesley turned away. The last thing he needed was to hear tales of Steve’s misspent youth. Steve caused him enough trouble as it was. ‘Well, you’d better go round there and see what’s been stolen. They might show you the bloodstains while you’re at it.’ He grinned. ‘But if they charge you for the privilege, don’t claim it on expenses, will you?’

Rachel took a deep breath. ‘I’ll go with him. I could do with getting out of the office.’

Steve scowled, suspecting a conspiracy; that Rachel was really being sent to keep an eye on him. He made for the door, trying not to let his disappointment show. The theft would be a bOring routine matter and if he was stuck with Rachel that ruled out a visit to the pub on the way back. But at least he+d get a good look at Potwoolstan Hall.

When Steve and Rachel had gone, Wesley made for Heffernan’s office. The DCI would want to be told about this new distraction, so that he could complain about it if nothing else. Wesley poked his head round the door.

‘Just thought you’d like to know, Steve’s on his way to investigate a report of a theft. ‘

Heffernan shuffled his paperwork. ‘Can’t someone from Uniform deal with it?’

‘It sounds as if it might fit the pattern of those others. Same MO - money and jewellery stolen from a guest’s room. This latest one’s at a place called Potwoolstan Hall. Steve mentioned the famous murders.’

Heffernan raised his eyebrows. ‘Did he now?’ He sat back and there was a long silence as he stared into space. Finally he spoke. ‘I was sent over there as a raw young constable to patrol the grounds not long after I joined the force. Not something you forget in a hurry.’

‘Rachel said the housekeeper shot the family she worked for then shot herself. ‘

‘That’s the sanitised version. It was a bloodbath. She blasted the elder daughter’s fiance with a shotgun in the hall - almost blew his head clean off: blood and brains every-

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where. Then she shot the son, the daughter and the parents before killing herself in the kitchen.’

‘What made her do it?’

Heffeman shook his head. ‘There’d been some sort of row but 1 can’t remember the details.’

‘Rachel said the Hall’s a healing centre now.’

‘So 1 heard. It was empty for years so they probably bought it at a knockdown price.’ He sighed. ‘So what exactly has been stolen?’

‘Money and jewellery. That’s all 1 know. No doubt Steve’ll find out the details.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ Heffeman mumbled under his breath.

The sound of the doorbell made Emma Oldchester jump. She wasn’t expecting visitors. She put the final touch of brown paint on the tiny staircase before wipingˇ her stained hands on her apron and making her way downstairs.

She often wished they had a glass front door instead of the solid wood one Barry had chosen so she could see who was calling. She had asked Barry to fit a spy hole but he had never got round to it. She hesitated, her hand on the latch. Surely it wouldn’t be him. He wouldn’t visit without warning. Cautiously, she slipped the security chain on and opened the door a few inches.

‘Hello, Emmy, my pet. Aren’t you going to let me in?’

Relieved, she took the chain off and flung the door wide open. ‘Sorry, dad, 1 thought … 1 thought you might have been him.’ She stood on tiptoe to kiss the newcomer, a big, weather-beaten, man with a shock of grey hair and a beard that tickled her face.

‘Has he been in touch again?’

‘Not for a couple of days. 1 expected … ‘

‘I told him 1 didn’t know anything. Perhaps he’s given up.’

Emma began to chew at her nails.

‘Look, Em, you don’t have to speak to him if you don’t

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want to. Tell him to get lost. Let sleeping dogs lie, that’s what I say.’

Emma made her way into the small, neat lounge and the big man followed.

‘Maybe I won’t. Barry says I shouldn’t. Maybe I’ll just tell him I don’t want to see him if he phones again.’

There was an awkward silence. Joe Harper stared at his daughter. She looked so fragile, so vulnerable. Just as she’d always looked.

‘How are your houses going?’

Emma forced a smile. ‘It was a good idea of Barry’s, the website. I’ve got four new orders through it: one from Wales, two from London and one came in yesterday from a lady in Tradmouth. She wants a traditional Devon cottage for her daughter’s birthday.’

Joe smiled. ‘You’re doing well, maid. I’m proud of you.’ He reached out a large hand and brushed a strand of fair hair off her thin, pale face. ‘Doll’s houses have always been your thing, haven’t they?’ Joe’s face clouded, as if some sudden unhappy memory had sprung into his mind.

Emma took his hand in hers and squeezed it. She wouldn’t mention what she was planning. The last thing she wanted to do was to worry him.

Colin Bowman was due to conduct the postmortem on the unidentified body from the river the following morning, but until then they had to be .content with idle speculation. According to Gerry Heffernan, who was an experienced sailor and knew about these things, the body probably went in further up the river towards Neston. Now all they had to do was to find out exactly where.

Heffernan had checked with the harbour master and the coastguard just in case anything untoward had been reported by any of the river’s many sailors. But there was no word of anything out of the ordinary. The victim might have been murdered on a boat and the body thrown overboard. Or else he might have been thrown into the river after an attack on

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dry land. Either way, Wesley’s workload was due to expand at an alarming rate. He hoped Pam would understand. But somehow he feared that she wouldn’t.

The perfunctory search of the dead man’s pockets on the river bank had yielded no clue to his identity and Wesley suspected that the killer had stripped the corpse of belong-ings to make identification - and his life - more difficult. The next step was a trawl through the missing persons reports. DC Trish Walton made a start.

Gerry Heffernan emerged from his office and announced that it was lunchtime. Wesley’s morning walk by the river had given him an appetite and somehow, by unspoken agreement, he and Heffernan found themselves in the Fisherman’s Arms on the receiving end of two pints of best bitter and two large hotpot{! which steamed temptingly in oversized bowls. Wesley tucked into his enthusiastically. Since Amelia’s arrival in the world, hearty meals were in short supply at home and he and Pam existed on ready meals and takeaways. But then, as Pam normally worked full time as a primary school teacher, things hadn’t been much better before Amelia’s birth. Only in the school holidays had the Petersons ever experienced anything resembling domestic harmony.

Wesley gazed at the roaring open fire as he finished his pint. The low-beamed cosiness of the Fishel”lDlln’ s Arms with its worn red leather seats, its well-poli~ horse brasses and its motherly landlady, the widow of a police sergeant, who always provided a warm welcome for members of the local constabulary, was a perfect antidote to a morning spent stuyding a cold corpse ona chilly river bank. But, like a pleasant dream, it couldn’t last for ever. They had promised Colin that they’d call in at the mortuary that afternoon. It wasn’t something they were looking forward to but, on the other hand, Colin did serve a very decent cup of tea.

Tradmouth Hospital was a short walk away so when they had finished their meal they walked quickly down the

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narrow streets to keep their rendezvous with death.

‘Wonder how Steve and Rachel are getting on at

Potwoolstan Hall,’ said Wesley, raising his voice to make

himself heard over the screaming sea gulls.

‘Rachel’s been quiet recently. It is something to do with

that Australian boyfriend of hers?’

Wesley hesitated for a moment. ‘That was over ages

ago.’

Heffernan looked at him, curious. ‘You seem to know all

about it.’

Wesley felt his face burning.

‘Is it true she’s moving out-of the farm?’

‘So she says.’ He knew all about Rachel’s intention to

find a flat of her own in the town, away from the farm

where she had lived all her life with her parents and three

brothers. She had told him about her proposed bid for

freedom in great detail. But somehow he didn’t feel like