The Jackal Man (17 page)

She shook her head. ‘I keep meaning to but I haven’t had a chance.’

‘They’re fascinating. And his description of the other archaeologists and all the rivalry between them makes for a good read.
I think you should get them published.’

‘Maybe I will.’ She reached out and brushed Delaware’s arm with her hand. ‘Perhaps you could edit them for me.’

Neil averted his eyes. If he could see through Delaware, he wondered why Caroline couldn’t.

‘I’d love to. I’ve got to know them pretty well in the course of my research, so the job wouldn’t prove too challenging,’
he said with a smug smile. ‘I’d better get to work.’ He bent to kiss Caroline’s hand, the height of pretentiousness in Neil’s
opinion, and stalked out of the room.

Neil was left alone with her, again, unsure what to say. He really wanted to tell her that he didn’t trust Robert Delaware,
that the man was insincere and full of his own importance. But he knew it was best not to make waves when he was a guest in
the woman’s house.

Instead he found himself apologising. ‘I’m sorry for mentioning your great-uncle and those murders – I hope it didn’t upset
you …’

Caroline gave him a weak smile. ‘It all happened a long time ago. Besides, I mentioned it first, didn’t I? Remember? When
you first came here.’

Neil nodded. It was something he could hardly forget.

‘I think Robert’s just being over-protective. Silly really,’ she said with a fondness that made Neil’s heart sink.

‘What do you know about the murders? I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s all right but …’

‘To tell you the truth I don’t know much at all; only the bare facts. Sir Frederick’s elder son, John, murdered four local
girls but it never came to trial because he committed suicide before the police could arrest him. The killings stopped as
soon as he died so the police didn’t look for anyone else in connection with the murders. As I said before, Sir Frederick
probably had it all hushed up. People in his
position could do that sort of thing in those days. I’m sorry I can’t tell you any more.’ She tilted her head to one side.
‘Why are you so interested anyway?’

It was a good question; one that Neil didn’t know how to answer. He wasn’t sure himself why the tantalising mention of four
murders had caught his imagination. But it had and he wanted to know more. Perhaps it was the unaccustomed feeling of having
to take a back seat while Andrew Beredace did all the serious work. Of course he had to co-ordinate things with the Unit and
the National Trust but he was used to getting his hands dirty. Perhaps he was bored and looking for something to exercise
his imagination.

‘Well, they say that inside every archaeologist there’s a detective trying to get out,’ he said lightly. The saying was hardly
original but he felt it was appropriate. ‘I’ll leave you in peace. There’s something I need to check before Andrew arrives.’

Caroline stood up and put a hand on his sleeve. ‘If you find anything out about the murders, you will let me know, won’t you?
Maybe it’s time I faced a few family demons.’

Her words surprised him. But then she’d only recently moved to the castle from a busy life in London; before that she had
only been there as a visitor so there was no reason why she should be privy to family secrets from a hundred years ago, especially
when those secrets had been carefully hidden by following generations.

In Andrew’s absence he felt no obligation to spend the morning in Sir Frederick’s Egyptian museum. Besides, bearing in mind
that he had to complete reports on everything of archaeological interest on the estate, he wanted to have another look at
the medieval ruins in the woods.

He was halfway down the corridor when he had an idea
of such brilliant simplicity that he felt rather proud of himself. He crept back and let himself out of the front door, closing
it quietly behind him. It was nine forty-five now. The local library was bound to be open.

He steered the Mini down the drive and followed signs to Mortonhampstead, the nearest small town. The library was easy to
find. In fact the fine Victorian building constructed in the last year of the great queen’s reign was hard to miss. Once he
had parked the car, he rushed up the library steps and pushed open the door.

Inside, he approached a woman with an ID badge hanging around her neck. She was slim, fair-haired and rather beautiful but
Neil didn’t have time for dalliance, not even if she hadn’t been wearing a gold band and a rather flashy diamond engagement
ring on the third finger of her left hand.

‘I’m looking for the local history section,’ he said. ‘I’m interested in Varley Castle in the early twentieth century. I believe
there were some unsolved murders …’

The woman’s eyes lit up with recognition. From the glimpse he’d caught of her badge he knew her name was Helena. A pretty
name which suited her.

‘Someone was asking about that last week. An author. You’ll find a couple of local history books over there and we keep back
copies of the local paper dating back to 1887 on microfilm – I’ll show you.’

‘Do you know this author’s name?’ he asked as Helena set up the machine for him.

‘Sorry. But he said he was doing some research up at Varley castle.’

So Robert Delaware had been looking at back copies of the local rag for details of the murders John Varley had
committed. Neil wondered why he had been reluctant to talk about it. Perhaps he would find the answer in the old newspaper
reports.

First he had a look through a couple of books in the local history section which provided the bare facts. In May to July 1903
four local girls had been found strangled and mutilated in fields and country lanes around the Varley Castle area. The nature
of the mutilations was glossed over but there was one telling remark: a local policeman said he feared that Jack the Ripper
had left the streets of Whitechapel and had travelled to Devon to continue his evil work.

Then Neil searched through the local newspaper for the relevant time and suddenly it was there in front of him. A headline,
sensational as any modern tabloid: ‘Horrible murder. Woman’s body found in field, brutally mutilated. This is the devil’s
work, says vicar.’

His heart pounded as he read on. The body of Jenny Pride, a young woman betrothed to a blacksmith, was discovered by farm
workers early on a Thursday morning. She had been strangled and her innards had been cut out and spread beside her on the
ground. At first the unfortunate girl’s fiancé, the blacksmith, had come under suspicion and had endured several days of police
interrogation but had been released when his mother had sworn on the Bible that he was with her on the night in question and
hadn’t left the house.

Once Neil had digested the facts, he sent the machine whirring into action again and found the second headline, similar to
the first. This time the victim was one Nellie Lacey and the circumstances were almost identical, apart from the fact that
Nellie, a maidservant at a vicarage, was found in woodland near Varley Castle: the same woodland where John Varley had hanged
himself.

By the time the third body was discovered the headlines had become more hysterical. A monster was scourging the land. A wild
beast. Maybe even Satan himself gorging on the blood of innocent virgins – ignoring the inconvenient fact that the third victim,
one Betty Vance, had already borne a child out of wedlock.

The fourth and final victim was found in a field on the edge of the Varley Castle estate. Her name was Peggy Carr and she
was a scullery maid in the castle kitchens. She had died in an identical manner to the other girls but this time the report
included something that hadn’t been mentioned before. ‘The body of Miss Carr had been encased in a linen shroud in the same
manner as the other unfortunates and a strange statue of great antiquity had been laid upon her body.’ Just thirty-three words
but they captured Neil’s attention. He scrolled through later copies of the paper, only to find that, after a flurry of arrests,
futile police activity and press speculation, the killings stopped. John Varley’s suicide, a week after Peggy Carr’s body
was found, warranted three lines on an inside page, showing that in those days the gentry could command discretion from the
press. After that there was no more mention of the murders, the assumption being that the perpetrator had hanged himself,
thus saving the state the trouble.

Neil took out his mobile phone and pressed out Wesley’s number. This was something he’d want to know about. However there
was no answer, just an invitation to leave a message. The news would have to wait.

Wesley was in Clive Crest’s office when his mobile phone began to ring. Thinking that it might be the news that Alan Jakes
had finally been brought in, he glanced at the caller
display but, on seeing it was Neil, he silenced the instrument. Crest was looking terrified and he didn’t want any interruptions.

He and Gerry had been waiting for the solicitor when he arrived for work – because Gerry had thought it would cause maximum
embarrassment – and when Crest breezed into the office, Gerry and Wesley had appeared to ruin his day.

‘I received a phone call last night, Mr Crest,’ Wesley said. ‘It was from a woman but she didn’t give her name. It was a pay
as you go mobile so we’ve no way of tracing the owner but we can narrow it down to a few possibilities.’

He watched Clive Crest’s face. The man was becoming increasingly nervous. ‘You see, I gave my mobile number to some of Clare
Mayers’s school friends and told them to call me if they had any information. Clare Mayers was the girl who was attacked near
Hugford, by the way.’

Crest looked as frightened as a wild animal about to encounter the wheels of a four-by-four in a country lane. For a fleeting
moment Wesley felt a little sorry for the man.

‘This anonymous caller made a certain accusation.’

It was Gerry who leaned forward and looked Crest in the eye. ‘She said you were having it off with one of Clare’s mates. You
see, we think Clare Mayers was attacked by the same man who murdered your au pair.’ He paused. ‘You seem to be the link between
the two victims.’

Crest shook his head vigorously. ‘I can’t accept that. I swear I had nothing to do with Analise’s death. And I don’t know
Clare Mayers. I’ve never met her in my life.’

‘But you do know a school friend of hers. Vicky Page?’

The blood drained from Clive Crest’s face. He sat there for a few moments in shocked silence before speaking.
Wesley could tell he was trying to choose the right words, something that wouldn’t make him look too bad.

‘I don’t suppose it’s any use denying it,’ he said with a sigh.

‘I don’t suppose it is,’ said Wesley. He gave the man an expectant smile and waited.

‘I never met Clare, although Vicky did mention her from time to time. Vicky didn’t like her much. She said she was – what’s
the word? – a loser. But Vicky does tend to be a little … a little harsh about people sometimes.’ He hesitated. ‘Don’t
think I’m comfortable with our relationship, Inspector. And there have been times when I’ve asked her what she sees in me
– the difference in our ages and all that.’

‘And what did she say to that?’ Gerry asked. He sounded genuinely interested.

‘She said she liked mature men. That was how she got onto the subject of her friend Clare: she said she was infatuated with
her mother’s ex but he was a petty criminal of some kind. She was very scathing about it.’

Wesley saw Gerry give the man a meaningful wink. Man to man. ‘I bet you couldn’t believe your luck when a nubile sixth former
said she was interested in a bloke like you – losing your boyish figure, thin on top and the wrong side of forty.’

Crest looked at him, unsure how to take it. Then he nodded. ‘I feel bad about deceiving Suzie of course. But … but her
life is so occupied by her work and Alexander … and her leisure activities.’

‘She has no time for you?’ said Wesley, trying to sound sympathetic, suddenly recalling how Pam had occasionally voiced something
similar. Time was precious.

‘Let’s just say I’m not at the top of her priority list. I met
Vicky when she came here on work experience and she seemed so vibrant. So alive.’

‘And she makes you feel young again,’ said Gerry as if he’d heard that particular story a million times before … which
he probably had.

‘Yes. She makes me feel young,’ said Crest with a hint of defiance. ‘She’s a remarkable girl.’

‘And you buy her presents and take her out for fancy meals?’

The solicitor nodded. He looked more unsure of himself now that Gerry had just put a slow puncture in his romantic bubble.

‘We’re not here to make moral judgements,’ Wesley said quickly. ‘We just need to know where you were on Sunday night when
Clare Mayers was attacked.’

Crest swallowed hard. ‘I met Vicky. She was going to a quiz night at the pub with some friends. I picked her up at the bottom
of her road and …’

‘You had a bit of hanky-panky in the back of the BMW?’

Wesley looked at Gerry. Sometimes he pushed things a bit too far. But the tactic often worked.

Crest’s face reddened. ‘I have a Mercedes, Chief Inspector. And yes, if you must know, Vicky and I made love in a country
lane. Then I dropped her at the Anglers’ Arms to meet her friends. She was late but she said it didn’t matter. She told me
she was getting a taxi back.’

‘What did you do after you’d left her?’

‘I went home. Suzie was out at a rehearsal for her drama society production. But Analise was there. She saw me come in.’

‘Analise is dead, Mr Crest,’ said Wesley softly. ‘Did you go out again?’

Crest looked sheepish and Wesley knew there were more confessions to come.

‘Suzie came back from her rehearsal and went straight to bed. I wasn’t tired so I stayed up for a while. Then Vicky called
me. She told me she was at home and her family were away. Suzie always takes a sleeping pill and once she’s asleep she’s out
like a light till morning so I told myself she’d never find out.’ He looked at Wesley as though he judged him to be the more
understanding of the pair. ‘I drove over to Vicky’s and I sneaked back at five in the morning before Suzie woke up. They call
it living dangerously, don’t they? Taking risks. I’ve never been much of a risk-taker, Inspector but that’s the effect Vicky
has on me. I’m a different man when I’m with her.’