Cursed Inheritance (23 page)

‘And now she’s gone back to Potwoolstan Hall. You’d

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imagine that wild horses wouldn’t drag her back into that place.’

‘1 think we should make sure she’s all right; the sooner the better.’

Rachel said nothing.

‘So how’s the flat-hunting?’ Wesley asked, making conversation. ‘Did you go for the one in Armada Street?’

‘I’m still trying to decide. Why don’t you help me make up my mind?’ A smile played around her lips. ‘Come with me and have a look at it. There’s a cafe next door. We can have a coffee before we go to see Emma.’

‘That’d be nice,’ Wesley stuttered, feeling like a man who’s just about to dive into deep and treacherous waters and doesn’t know’ how to turn back. He decided a sudden change of subject might save the situation. ‘Did 1 tell you Neil Watson’s in the States? He’s looked up some old wartime sweetheart of his grandmother’s. And it turns out this man’s a descendant of the family who built Potwoolstan Hall. ‘

‘The Harfords?’

‘No, not the Harfords. They didn’t buy it until the nineteenth century. This was a family called the Selbiwoods. One of the younger sons went off to seek his fortune in Virginia in the seventeenth century, hence the connection with Neil’s Mr Selbiwood.’

Rachel smiled. She had learned to treat Wesley’s interest in things historical with polite indifference. ‘I’m looking forward to that coffee,’ she said meaningfully.

Wesley didn’t reply.

Wesley made an excuse not to visit the flat with Rachel. It might have been quite an innocent invitation but he sensed a bat squeak of danger. Just to be on the safe side, he told her he’d have to forgo the coffee because he needed to check on something back at the station before they talked to Emma Oldchester. He was relieved when he found Gerry Heffernan in his office, eager to impart some fresh information.

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‘Our trusting jeweller, Jack Wright, rang to say that “Mr Smith” has been to see him again. Offered him a very nice ring, which fits the description of the one stolen from Mrs Jeffries, and left it with him for valuation. Smith’s coming back.’ He grinned. ‘And when he does, we’ll be waiting for him.’

‘That should improve our clear-up rate. I’ve just been to see Emma Oldchester’s husband. Patrick Evans was trying to make contact with her but the husband claimed that he never met pim and neither did she. Oldchester showed us a doll’s house Emma had made: only this was no ordinary doll’s house. It was a reconstruction of the crime scene at Potwoolstan Hall.’

Gerry Heffernan scratched his head, lost for words.

‘Emma was on the list of people Evans intended to see while he was down here. She’s Martha Wallace’s daughter. And she’s at Potwoolstan Hall right now. She’s signed in to Elsham’s healing centre.’

Heffernan caught on quickly. ‘Patrick Evans died in the Hall grounds. And if it wasn’t Martha Wallace who killed those people … if it was somebody else and they’re still around…’

‘If the killer thinks Emma witnessed the murders, she could be in danger. ‘

‘We’d better get down there, make sure she’s OK. The Nutter’s just summoned me to his office.’ Heffernan looked at Wesley and winked. ‘Mind if I come with you?’ He stood up, knocking a pile of papers to the floor.

The two men hurried from the office, Heffernan getting his coat into an undignified tangle as he struggled to find the correct sleeves, and as Wesley drove to Potwoolstan Hall, he hoped they’d find Emma Oldchester safe and well so that his mind would be put at rest. But he had an uneasy feeling as he passed through the gates that things might not be quite that simple.

Jeremy Elsham’s wife, Pandora, greeted them at the front door, her face stiff with plastic surgery and disapproval.

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‘This is starting to feel like police harassment,’ she said, indignant. ‘I don’t know what else we can tell you. Nobody here knew that man who died. Anybody can get to that river bank … ‘

Wesley stopped her. ‘We want a word with one of your guests. Can you let Mrs Oldchester know we’re here?’

Pandora stared at him as if the request was some terrible affront. ‘The Beings come here for healing and quiet. They don’t pay good money to be disturbed every five minutes by … ‘

Gerry Heffeman stepped forward. ‘Look, love, this is a murder enquiry. Just get her, will you?’

This did the trick. Pandora, her face taut, strutted off towards her husband’s office, her heels clicking angrily on the hard wood floor.

Wesley and Heffernan followed her into the office uninvited and found her consulting a chart on the wall. ‘She’s in the meditation room for one of Jeremy’s workshops at the moment.’

‘Thanks, love,’ said Gerry Heffeman cheerily. ‘Just point us in the right direction. ‘

Wesley peered at the chart. He noticed that Emma had been down for aromatherapy first thing that morning. Then two hours later, meditation. The Beings had a busy and organised schedule.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Pandora said frostily. ‘You can’t just barge in there.’

She shut the office door firmly behind her and strode through the hallway into a comfortable sitting room that would grace any country house hotel, then she led them out into a wide corridor where one of the closed doors bore the legend ‘Meditation Room in use. Please wait.’

But Gerry Heffernan had never been one for obeying orders. Before Pandora could stop him he flung the door open. When he stepped inside he was greeted by the curious stares of a trio of cross-legged Beings who appeared more uncomfortable than serene. Jeremy Elsham, seated in the

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lotus position on a raised dais, untangled his limbs and stood up, managing somehow to maintain his dignity.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he hissed in a voice that made Wesley suspect he might have been a headmaster in some previous incarnation.

‘We’re looking for Emma Oldchester,’ said Gerry Heffernan, scanning the upturned, perplexed faces. ‘Anyone know where she is?’

‘How dare you disturb our meditation. This intrusion has completely disrupted our positive energy. I’ve a good mind to complain to your ‘superiors.’

But Heffernan was unrepentant. ‘We’re investigating a murder. Now I’ll ask you again. Does anybody know where Emma Oldchester is?’

. Jeremy Elsham had been put in his place. Obviously unused to being crossed, he fell into a silent sulk. The three Beings on the floor, all identically dressed in what looked like blue towelling pyjamas, looked at each other and after a few seconds of silence one of them stood up.

‘1 saw’ her going out about half an hour ago. She was walking towards the woods.’ The man who spoke was small with red hair and an earnest frown. He glanced nervously at Jeremy Elsham as if afraid he’d earned himself a deten-tion from the headmaster for speaking out of turn.

‘Was she alone?’ Wesley asked. -

The man nodded.

‘And this was half an hour ago?’

Another nod.

Wesley addressed Jeremy Elsham, who was fuming silently on the dais. ‘Were you expecting her at this session?’

‘Yes. Her name was down.’ Elsham looked uneasy, as though the subject of Emma Oldchester worried him in some way.

‘Then we’d better fmd her.’ He turned to leave the room, then turned back. Just one more thing, Mr Elsham. Did you hypnotise Mrs Oldchester?’ˇ

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There was no mistaking it. Elsham was frightened. ‘She wasn’t a suitable subject. She became disturbed.’

‘What happened?’

‘I have my Beings’ confidentiality to consider, Inspector,’ he said, glancing at the trio whose meditation had been so rudely interrupted.

Wesley knew he was holding something back. He would talk to him in private once they’d made sure Emma was safe.

‘Let’s get some uniforms over there,’ Heffernan whispered as they walked back to the entrance hall. ‘I want her found.’

‘Maybe she’s decided to do the sensible thing and go home,’ said Wesley. ‘Or perhaps she’s decided to go shopping and take a break from all that earnestness.’

‘It’d get on my nerves … especially with Sir in charge. That Elsham reminds me a bit of myoId headmaster,’ Gerry Heffernan added as he marched towards the entrance.

Emma Oldchester leaned against a tree. She had vague, pleasant memories of these woods. Her mother had brought her here for a picnic once. And further on, by the water, was the little shingle beach where they had spread the tartan blanket. She had dipped her bare toes in the water and her mother had told her to be careful. The currents were dangerous.

Emma left the shelter of the trees and walked to the river’s edge, where she stood gazing at the far bank, warmed and comforted by the memories of her early childhood. When she closed her eyes she saw a fleeting image of her real mother: her face, the way she smelled of laven-der polish and cooking; the impatient tone of her voice when she told her off.

But the day her world had collapsed was still a dark blur. Her mind had blocked out the horror but snatches were emerging bit by bit from the shadows. She had a vague

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half-memory of wandering amongst the. dead and tripping over a man in the hall who had no face and of her feet and nightdress being covered in his sticky, warm blood.

Then there was the man with a gun; the man she had to hide from. She had glimpsed his face when Jeremy took her back. But what she had seen was impossible.

Someone was calling her name. She turned slowly. It was a policeman and she could see the relief on his face.

‘We’ve been looking all over for you, my lover,’ the plump young constable said, his Devon accent warm and somehow comforting. ‘Our chief inspector’s worried about you.’

Emma Oldchester allowed herself to be led back to the Hall, to the bright conservatory where the young constable had told her the chief inspector was waiting.

She entered the conservatory, experiencing a sudden feeling of panic but she walked on, her hands clenched by her side, staring at the two men who had just stood up to greet her. One was a good-looking young black manwith gentle, intelligent dark brown eyes. The other a rather overweight and shabby middle-aged man who looked as though he had dressed in the dark that morning, pulling shirt and trousers from a heap on the floor. Neither man looked particularly intimidating. But the fact that they were policemen made her nervous.

When they invited her to sit down, she perched on the edge of a wicker chair, as if preparing for a swift escape. The shabby one, who introduced himself as Chief Inspector Gerry Heffernan, told her they’d spoken to Barry about Patrick Evans. Quietly, unemotionally, Emma confirmed her husband’s statement, rather surprised at how relaxed she was beginning to feel. Patrick Evans had rung. her several times but she’d refused to see him. She added that Evans had also rung her father and that he too had refused to get involved with his research. Let the past remain buried.

‘You are Martha Wallace’s daughter?’ the younger man

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asked softly, almost in a whisper.

Emma nodded, still outwardly calm but now experiencing slight feelings of panic. ‘And before you ask, 1 don’t remember what happened. The psychologist 1 saw at the time told my parents that I’d probably never remember. That it was something my mind couldn’t deal with so 1 blotted it out. It’s common in cases of trauma, he said. But now 1 want to remember, that’s why 1 came here.’

‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

She looked Wesley in the eye. ‘I won’t change my mind. 1 can’t go through life wondering whether my own mother was capable of murdering all those people like that. They say bad blood runs in families, don’t they? I’ve got to know. Do you understand?’

She stood up, straight-backed, with the tragic dignity of an aristocrat going to the guillotine in the French Revolution. ‘I have to go for my massage now.’ Without another word she left the room. Wesley had wanted to ask her about the doll’s house. But that could wait.

He would be keeping an eye on Emma Oldchester.

Wesley began to walk to the car, Heffernan following behind.

‘That Emma didn’t tell us much.’ The chief inspector sounded disappointed.

‘I didn’t really expect her to. I’d like to talk to this Joe Harper, her foster father: he’s Martha Wallace’s cousin and, presumably, he knew her well. ‘

‘Shall we pay him a call next?’

‘I don’t really want to turn up unannounced.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And there’s someone else on Evans’s list 1 want to see. We’ve got an address for Richard Gibbons. He was undergardener at the Hall at the time of the killings. And it’s not far.’

They found Gibbons’s house nestled amongst the huddle of cream-painted council houses on the outskirts of Tradmouth. As they pulled up outside, Wesley noted the

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neat and colourful front garden behind the fancy wrought-iron gate and the round black satellite TV dish stuck to the front of the building like a medal on a military chest. The council had recently put in new plasti~ windows and painted the pebbledashed exterior so the place had a neat, well-cared-for look. Perhaps Gibbons was house proud.

Gibbons himself answered the door. He was an unpre-possessing man with receding, greasy hair and a shiny face. His short-sleeved grey T-shirt revealed a pair of pale, spindly arms and Wesley found it hard to imagine him wielding a spade. He also had sly, watchful eyes and a brief flash of apprehension passed across his face as they introduced themselves.

Gibbons led them through into the living room where the floral three-piece suite clashed alarmingly with the orange swirls on the carpet. Interior design obviously wasn’t Gibbons’s strong point. Wesley sat down.

‘I didn’t know if you’d come,’ said Gibbons. ‘They said on the news he’d been murdered. ‘

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. ‘You’re talking about Patrick Evans, 1 presume?’ said Wesley.

The man nodded.

‘So you met him?’ Heffernan asked impatiently.

‘Er, not exactly. 1 arranged to meet him in the Fisherman’s Arms last Saturday night. Then he rang again - on the Saturday morning it was. He said could we change it ‘cause he was meeting someone that night and it was the only night they could make it. 1 said I’d meet him on Monday instead. 1 went there, only he never turned up.’