The Flesh Tailor (7 page)

Neil Watson drove down from his flat in Exeter early on Monday morning. He’d made phone calls the evening before, calling
in a few favours, and he’d negotiated the loan of the geophysics equipment which was now sitting in the boot and back seat
of his Mini. He’d also managed to persuade a few colleagues to help him. It hadn’t been hard to lure them away from their
paperwork with the promise of some real archaeology, especially once he’d told them about the skeletons and the knife blade.

He’d felt rather excited the night before when Wesley had called to pass on Colin Bowman’s conclusions. The skeletons were
possibly centuries old, and the mention of the marks on the bones had intrigued him. Perhaps Colin,
with his medical mind on dissection and autopsies, had jumped to incorrect conclusions. Perhaps there was another explanation.
If only he could think of one. Perhaps it would come to him on the journey down to Tradington.

He arrived at Tailors Court to find the place deserted, but then his colleagues weren’t due for another hour. The trench lay
abandoned and covered with a tarpaulin. He knew that the Forensic team had made their examination, taken their photographs
and collected their samples but if the skeletons were proved to be old, they would lose interest pretty rapidly. Neil was
pretty certain they were old. But if the geophysics survey did turn up any more bodies and those bodies had modern dental
work, he would be forced to change his mind.

He walked towards the house in the fine drizzle, zipping up his aged combat jacket. He hoped the Persimmons would have a roaring
fire and a cup of hot tea for him. But he knew that there was a strong risk of disappointment. They hadn’t looked too delighted
about the invasion of police and archaeologists onto their property.

The front door was ancient oak with a huge iron knocker at its centre. As Neil couldn’t see a bell push, he lifted the knocker
and when he let it fall twice the thunderous noise within the house was loud enough to awaken the dead. While he was waiting
for the door to open, he took a step back and studied the house. The central section was mellow grey stone and, even though
it must have been altered many times over the years, at its core was a traditional Devon longhouse, accommodating a family
at one end and animals at the other. The two stone-built wings that sprouted either side were built in the same material but
in a different, more boastful style. At some
point in the house’s history an effort had been made to push the place upmarket and convert it from a working farm to a home
fit for gentry.

The door was opened by Jill Persimmon who looked wary at first. Then her expression changed to one of polite curiosity when
she recognised him.

‘Oh, you’re the archaeologist, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right. Mind if I come in?’

She looked down disapprovingly at his boots and he got the message. He took them off and left them neatly on the doormat before
following her into the house.

When he’d received the cup of tea he’d been hoping for, Jill sat down opposite him and leaned forward, as if preparing to
share a confidence.

‘Those skeletons … they are old, aren’t they? The last thing we want is to have police crawling all over the place. We need
to get the electrics into the outhouse so that Tony can get the consultancy going. And then there’s my business. We just can’t
afford any delays. You do see that, don’t you?’

Neil said nothing for a few moments. It really wasn’t his problem. But he decided that it was probably safe to put her mind
at rest on one thing at least. ‘As far as I can tell, the skeletons look old, maybe a few hundred years.’

Jill Persimmon looked relieved. ‘So we’ll be able to carry on with the work?’

‘Well, you’ll need a go-ahead from the police but I can put in a word. I was at university with the inspector.’ He grinned
modestly. ‘And I don’t know whether it’s been mentioned to you but we need to conduct a geophysics survey of the area, just
to make sure there are no more bodies down there.’

Jill’s pale blue eyes widened in dismay.

‘It’s just a precaution,’ Neil said hastily. ‘I’ve got the equipment with me and some colleagues are arriving soon to carry
out the investigation. The whole thing will only take a day or two and it’ll save you getting any nasty shocks in the future
if you want to put more cabling or pipes in.’

He watched as Jill considered the matter, hoping that this appeal to self-interest would work wonders. And it did.

‘I see what you mean,’ she said. ‘I suppose it makes sense but …’

At that moment Tony Persimmon appeared in the doorway. As soon as he saw Neil he was all affability and told him to do whatever
needed doing so that they needn’t be bothered again. Neil suspected that behind the bonhomie Tony was secretly wishing he’d
never called the police out in the first place. All this was holding up his well-laid business plans. Time, as Neil had heard
people say so often, was money.

But before he left the Persimmons in peace, Neil couldn’t resist asking the question he’d been longing to ask since he set
eyes on Tailors Court. ‘What do you know about the history of this place?’

The couple exchanged a look. Then Jill spoke. ‘The estate agent told us that part of the house dated back to the fifteenth
century. Then a wealthy family made some alterations in Tudor times. I think they added the outer wings. We bought it off
a family called Jannings, didn’t we, Tony?’

‘That’s right. Old girl had to go into a home because the place was too much for her. She must have been pushing ninety.’

‘She lived here alone?’

‘Yes. The place was in a right state but we saw the potential, didn’t we, Tony?’

Neil looked round. They were sitting in the kitchen; obviously one of the first rooms they’d attended to. It was a large low
room, the modern take on the traditional farmhouse kitchen. It was newly fitted out and the hand-painted units must have cost
a fortune.

‘How far have you got with the renovations?’ Neil asked as though he was interested. But his mind was racing ahead, wondering
about the parts of the place that had so far not been touched.

‘Half of downstairs along with three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. But now the workspace is our top priority. The rest
of the house can wait.’

Neil hesitated, wondering how his next question would be received. But he reckoned he had nothing to lose by being direct.
‘Do you mind if I have a look round?’

‘Why?’ Tony Persimmon asked, suddenly on his guard.

‘I’ve a feeling it might be a very important building, historically speaking.’ In Neil’s experience, there was nothing like
a bit of flattery to oil the wheels.

Tony stood up. ‘In that case I suppose I can spare you ten minutes for the guided tour.’ He didn’t sound too enthusiastic
but that didn’t bother Neil.

He was shown the modernised rooms first. They were cosy and tasteful, just as Neil had expected. Some original features, such
as a grand inglenook fireplace in the living room, had been retained, but the overall effect was rather bland, as if the Persimmons
had been sticking religiously to the dictates of interior design magazines.

To Neil, the untouched areas were far more interesting.
The two downstairs rooms seemed dark and dingy with grubby grey-green walls and flaking paintwork. But the fine oak beams,
chamfered and carved in places, told Neil that this part of the house was probably Tudor, and definitely high status. Tailors
Court was no extended peasant cottage.

Whatever furniture had been in there had been cleared out and the dusty, splintered floorboards awaited the inevitable sanding
and varnish. There was a built-in cupboard next to the fireplace in one of the rooms and Neil wandered over to open it. The
flowery wallpaper inside looked clean and new. It must have dated from the 1950s, Neil thought. The Janningses’ day. But it
had been emptied. Whoever had cleared this house out had been thorough.

‘Do you know how the place got the name Tailors Court?’ Neil asked as Tony led him up a fine oak staircase; chunky, solid
and newly polished.

‘Haven’t a clue,’ Tony replied. ‘Somebody said it was a corruption of another name but don’t ask me what it was.’ He smirked.
‘I don’t think it was ever a tailor’s shop if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘I’m not thinking anything,’ Neil said quickly. ‘I’m just curious, that’s all.’

Tony Persimmon smiled but his eyes gave away his impatience.

‘So who cleared it out? The previous owners?’

‘There was a load of junk in here so I got a house clearer in. Told them to take the lot, after I’d had a quick look through
for anything that could be valuable, of course.’

‘And
was
there anything valuable?’

‘There was a nice dresser. Sold it to an antiques place in
Exeter. And a nice Georgian chest of drawers. Had it restored and polished up and it’s now in the drawing room. You might
have noticed it. Lovely piece.’

Neil stayed silent as Tony led him from room to room. There was an excellent example of late sixteenth-century wall painting
– stylised flowers surrounding a coat of arms – in the room that served as a master bedroom, prominently displayed behind
glass. He’d half expected the Persimmons to have covered it with a coat of magnolia. Perhaps he was underestimating them.
Or perhaps the local conservation officer had insisted.

Tony led the way to a couple of unmodernised rooms. There were beams here too. And panelling which looked original to the
Elizabethan part of the house.

‘I’d like to get rid of that,’ Tony said as Neil went around examining it. ‘Makes the place gloomy.’

‘I presume the house is listed?’

‘I’m afraid so. Bloody nuisance. If I’d known about all the planning restrictions, I would have thought twice before putting
in an offer. I took a loose section of the panelling off just over there by the window. There were some revolting paintings
on the plaster behind.’

This caught Neil’s attention. ‘Can I see?’

Tony walked over to the window wall and lifted off a dusty section of battered oak panelling. Neil stood beside him and peered
at the section of wall he’d revealed. Then he wrinkled his nose in disgust. He’d seen similar images in anatomy books – a
human figure with the flesh stripped away to reveal the muscles and sinews beneath. It was well painted by a talented hand,
but still somehow primitive. The artist was no Leonardo.

Neil looked away. ‘Can I have a look at the attic?’

He saw Tony glance at his watch impatiently.

‘You can tell a lot about the construction of a house from the roof space.’

‘Really? I’ve never been up there.’

‘Got a ladder?’

‘No need. There’s a little staircase behind a door at the other end of the house.’

‘And you haven’t had a look?’ Neil was rather amazed at the man’s lack of curiosity. If the house had been his he would have
searched every inch of the place on the day he moved in.

‘I suppose the surveyor did. And the house clearers took some rubbish out of there but …’

Tony Persimmon walked down the landing and into another untouched bedroom, his footsteps echoing on the bare floorboards.
There was a door at the far end of the room that Neil assumed was a cupboard but when Tony opened it, he saw a steep narrow
staircase inside. The wood was dusty and splintered and as Neil placed a tentative foot on the bottom step, he hoped that
hungry woodworms hadn’t made a meal of it. But he had no need to worry – the steps held solid under his weight.

He turned, clinging to the filthy wall. ‘Got a torch, Tony?’

He waited a few minutes and when the torch was brought he grabbed it enthusiastically and pointed it upwards. And what he
saw made his heart beat a little faster.

‘What’s up there?’ Tony shouted.

‘There’s a door.’ He stood at the top of the steps and pushed at the battered oak panels. There was a large iron latch, riddled
with rust and age, but when he eventually
managed to lift it, the door opened stiffly with an ear-shattering creak.

He shone the torch around the attic.

It was much larger than he’d expected and, from the doorway he spotted at the end, he guessed there was a series of rooms
up here, possibly matching the floor below. This first chamber was empty. As he stepped into the room the cobwebs that festooned
the sloping ceiling grabbed at his hair. A fine place for Halloween, he thought as he looked around.

He made straight for the closed door at the end of the first attic room, hoping that it wasn’t locked.

To his relief the door opened stiffly but he was mildly disappointed to discover that this room was empty too. He stood there
for a while anyway, shining the torch upwards to study the construction of the roof.

Then he spotted yet another door at the end of the room. He walked towards it, his feet scraping on the dusty floor. When
he reached the door he tried to turn the rusty iron handle but nothing happened. It was locked.

He swore under his breath and retraced his steps.

Feeling for each rickety rung with his toes, he descended the staircase. Tony Persimmon was waiting at the bottom, shuffling
his feet impatiently.

‘The far door’s locked. Any idea where the key is?’

Tony shrugged. ‘The surveyor asked for it but the old lady said it was missing. But when we were clearing out we found a few
old keys in the kitchen.’

‘Do any of them fit?’

‘I haven’t had the time or the inclination to try,’ he said as though the subject of the attic was starting to bore him. ‘But
you can try them if you like.’

Once downstairs in the kitchen Tony pulled a small drawer out of the dresser and emptied its contents out onto the worktop.
A dozen or so antique keys lay there in an untidy heap and Neil began to sift through them just as Jill entered the kitchen.
When she spotted the mess on her worktop a look of irritation passed across her face.

‘What are you doing?’

He smiled at her innocently and pointed to the keys. ‘Trying to locate the key to that door at the end of the attic. Do you
mind if I take these up and try them in the lock?’