The Bone Garden (36 page)

‘So long as there’s a good wake afterwards,’ Heffernan mumbled in reply. ‘But I mustn’t have too much to drink. I’m meeting
Susan this evening.’

There was a loud crunching sound that was getting nearer. Wesley looked round and saw that Rachel was approaching, her feet
crunching loudly on the new gravel of the path. Crime prevention officers recommended gravel to deter burglars. They clearly
had a point.

‘I hear you’re going to the reburial of the murder victims,’ said Rachel, slightly breathless. ‘Can I come with you? I’d like
to come.’

Neil nodded. ‘Don’t see why not. More the merrier.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Wesley.

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ she replied with certainty.

Wesley didn’t argue. Perhaps there would be something cathartic about the reburial for Rachel. The case would be closed –
on the present as well as the past.

Neil raised his hand as though he had just remembered something important. ‘Hey, Wes, didn’t you say your mum’s maiden name
was Lantrist?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And did any of her family come from Barbados?’

‘I believe her grandfather did.’

‘You don’t think …?’ He didn’t finish the sentence.

‘I don’t know what to think.’ Wesley paused. ‘But I can think of worse ancestors to have than Richard Lantrist; the real one,
that is.’

‘Yeah,’ said Neil, a faraway look in his eyes. ‘Richard was one of the good guys.’

Wesley turned and noticed that Heffernan was staring into the distance like a hunted animal sniffing the air for the scent
of his pursuer.

‘Come on, Wes,’ he said, putting a firm hand on Wesley’s shoulder. ‘Get a move on. He’s seen me. He’s on his way over.’

But before they could escape the Chief Constable bore down on them, smart in his uniform, eyes gleaming like those of a hawk.
Rachel stepped back, her own eyes lowered as if she had no wish to be noticed.

‘Congratulations on your promotion, Chief Inspector Heffernan,’ the Chief Constable began jovially. ‘We were sad to see Stan
Jenkins retire through ill health, of course, but I’ve no doubt the reorganisation will work well at Tradmouth. We have a
fine team there, a very fine team.’ Then he turned to Wesley and shook his hand firmly, beaming like one who has been presented
with a much-coveted trophy. ‘And this must be our new inspector. Delighted to meet you. Treating you all right at Tradmouth,
are they?’ he asked anxiously, glancing over at Gerry Heffernan, who was standing there with a fixed grin on his chubby face.
‘Hope they’re making you feel at home round here.’

‘Oh yes, sir. I think I can safely say I feel at home,’ Wesley replied.

‘Are you, er … joining us up at the house? They’ve put on a bit of a spread,’ the Chief Constable said with the awkward jollity
of those who are trying to be matey with their social inferiors.

‘No, ta, sir. We’ve, er …’ For once in his life Gerry Heffernan’s mind went blank.

‘We have to attend a funeral, sir,’ said Wesley.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ The Chief Constable rearranged his expression into one of appropriate seriousness. ‘A relative, is it?’

‘Do you know, sir, I rather hope it is.’

The Chief Constable looked puzzled but didn’t inquire further. He walked away, visibly relieved to return to his fellow VIPs
and their drinks and canapés. Wesley noticed Pam shepherding her charges into the marquee where the humbler guests would receive
humbler refreshments. She turned and waved to him. He waved back.

The others were already strolling towards the gatehouse. He walked quickly to catch up with them and fell in beside Neil.

‘I’m glad Richard’s going into the family vault where he belongs,’ he said as they walked side by side down the drive past
the cricket ground. ‘You’ve done a good job at Earlsacre – a very good job.’

Neil smiled, but his thoughts were far away as the little band of mourners walked in silence towards the village church.

James Scott, Duke of Monmouth and Buccleuch, was born in 1649, the illegitimate son of Charles II. When Charles died in 1685,
his brother, the Roman Catholic Duke of York, was proclaimed King James II.

Monmouth, expecting support in the West Country for his claim to the throne, landed at Lyme Regis, Dorset, on 11 June 1685:
many flocked to his cause (730 from Devon alone) as he marched inland, and he was proclaimed King at Taunton. His followers
were mostly, like Richard Lantrist, idealistic dissenters who feared that James II would not be sympathetic to their faith
and would not allow them freedom of worship. John Whiting, the Quaker, said that there would have been no rebellion ‘if liberty
of conscience had been granted’.

On 6 July the rebels met the King’s army (which was under the leadership of John Churchill, later Duke of Marlborough and
an ancestor of Sir Winston Churchill) at Sedgemoor in Somerset and, in what was to be known as the last English battle fought
with pitchforks, the rebels were soundly defeated. Monmouth himself was beheaded for treason, but many of his supporters met
a more terrible end.

James II sent Lord Chief Justice George Jeffreys to punish the rebels, and this led to one of the darkest hours in West Country
history. In the ‘Bloody Assizes’ at Dorchester nearly 200 were condemned to death and nearly 800 transported as slaves to
the West Indies. As well as being cruel, Jeffreys was also corrupt, taking bribes and extorting money from defendants. These
events left a fearful impression on the region, and houses where the Lord Chief Justice stayed are still known as ‘Jeffreys
Houses’.

Most of those sent to the West Indies lived lives of great hardship
and degradation. An eye-witness said, ‘I have seen such cruelty there done to servants as I do not think one Christian could
have done to another.’ Those executed met the deaths of traitors and were hanged, drawn and quartered. Tradition still points
to where the rebels’ dismembered bodies were publicly displayed. Surgeon Yonge of Plymouth wrote of encountering severed heads
and quarters ‘at all the little towns and bridges and crossways’.

In 1688, three years after the Monmouth Rebellion, James II fled the country and William III landed at Brixham, Devon, and
made a triumphant entry into Exeter. Judge George Jeffreys was arrested and imprisoned in the Tower of London, where he later
died, the horrors that he unleashed, etched, to this day, on the folk memory of the south-west of England.