The Merchant's House (24 page)

‘Did you show Jonathon’s photo to anyone who knew this child?’

‘The lady upstairs. She said it was very like him but the hair was the wrong colour.’

‘Could always have dyed it.’

‘That’s what I thought. But the kid’s name was Daniel and he treated Sharon like his mum.’

‘Kids of that age are adaptable.’

‘Is there any chance … do you know if Jonathon was adopted by the Berrisfords? Is he their real son?’

‘As far as I know he’s the Berrisfords’ child, all right. It’s one of the first questions I asked.’

‘That’s that, then. Another theory bites the dust.’

Heffernan returned to his office. ‘You know that mate of yours in London, Wes, the one who looks up birth certificates?’ Wesley nodded. He knew what was coming. ‘Can
you get him to look up Jonathon Berrisford’s? I’ve written down his birthday and parents’ names.’ He handed him a scrap of paper. ‘See if you can track it down, will you. Probably born up north … Cheshire, I think.’

Two hours later the office fax bleeped into action and produced a copy of a birth certificate. The name, date and parents’ names were as expected, but Wesley looked with interest at the place of birth. The Morbay Clinic.

The autumn sun streamed through the windows of the room in the university where Professor Jensen worked silently. His fingers moulded the modelling material and pressed it against the cast of the skull to recreate the muscles of the face. Some used computer simulation these days, but the professor preferred the real thing; the sense of creation.

Neil watched, fascinated. The professor was taking his time. Such painstaking work couldn’t be hurried. He looked at his watch. He’d have to get back to the dig, see how things were progressing. There was a lot of paperwork to catch up on, and he had that appointment with the vicar tomorrow morning.

The vicar was keen. His eyes had shone when he talked of the Banized family tree he was creating. Family trees, he had said, could be the most revealing documents in existence, telling their story generation upon generation.

Neil wondered whether Wesley would like to come with him – he would certainly find it interesting. Then he remembered that Pam was going into hospital tomorrow. Wesley would have other things on his mind.

Pam had looked well when he’d seen her. It had been so long – must be seven years. She’d looked good, hadn’t changed. If things had been different, if he hadn’t taken her back to his flat and introduced her to Wesley. But he wasn’t one to feel bitter about what might have been; he hoped things would go well for Pam tomorrow.

Neil stood up to leave and the professor, still kneading and pressing the modelling material, layer upon layer, nodded to him. The face was taking shape. Soon she’d be there … Jennet.

* * *

Gerry Heffernan found something liberating about singing his heart out after a day’s work. After going through Sunday’s anthem five times, he felt a good deal more relaxed – which was more than could be said for the choirmaster.

Dorothy Truscot warbled away in the front row of the sopranos, fully recovered from the ordeal of her gruesome discovery. Heffernan noticed that her fifteen minutes of fame, and having her name in the local papers, had given her a new confidence. She had been rather withdrawn after her husband had died but now she gossiped with the best of them over tea and biscuits after choir practice. He reflected sadly how fame changed people.

He found himself behind Dorothy in the queue for the tea urn. She was talking to a plump soprano somewhat younger than herself, another member of the League of Widows. He caught snatches of their conversation.

‘ … And she threw him out… kept everything. But he’s got a flat now … Do you remember that woman who was on the jewellery stall at the WI… always dresses beautifully… lives over at Queenswear? Well, she had a flat vacant downstairs … so he’s moved in there. You know her, don’t you? … Mary Hughes … was Mary Berrisford before she married again. But that was before your time, Dorothy… a few years back now… people think she’s a bit stand-offish but she’s not so bad once you get to know her…’

‘Excuse me, ladies, but I couldn’t help overhearing. About Mary Hughes from Queenswear…’ They turned and looked at him. How dare a member of the male gender intrude on their gossip. ‘Do you know her?’

The plump soprano eyed him suspiciously. ‘I don’t know her well, only through the WI.’

‘Did you say her maiden name was Berrisford?’

‘Not her maiden name, her first husband’s name. He was a solicitor in Queenswear. She married again. She’s been widowed twice. Why?’

The plump soprano had been more than helpful. Dorothy Truscot was not to be forgotten. ‘Is it something to do with the police?’ She turned to her friend. ‘Did you know Mr Heffernan
was a police inspector, Pearl? He was in charge when I found the body.’

The plump soprano looked worried. ‘I hope I haven’t said anything out of turn.’

‘No, no, it’s nothing, really, only a minor detail. Thanks anyway, ladies. Sorry to have interrupted.’

He walked away, his mind turning over this new information.

The fat soprano watched him appraisingly. ‘Did I hear he was a widower, Dorothy?’

Heffernan’s bedtime reading that night was a sheaf of interview notes. He scanned through them until he found what he was looking for. Mary Hughes had a son who lived up north. It was a long shot. Berrisford was a common name: the son might be in Scotland, Leeds, Newcastle … anywhere. But if this was a connection between Sharon Carteret and the Berrisfords… It was a long shot.

I have left off writing this journal for many months. I have been much occupied with trade as my ships had a goodly season and I have not possessed the inclination to write of my affairs which have caused me much anxious worry.

Elizabeth is very near her time and she doth daily expect her pains to begin. She hath found it in her heart to keep Jennet in our employ. She doth consider it an act of Christian charity to help one so fallen by the wayside, as she says. She knows not the truth of it but I do sometime wonder if Jennet’s looks toward me will betray our situation. But mostly Jennet is the most discreet of creatures and welcomes me to her bed despite her condition.

Jennet is also near her time and my wife doth think to employ her as a wet nurse if her own milk is not good. Jennet doth like this suggestion ill and I did promise I would put objections to my wife. Jennet did ask me last evening if I would marry her if my wife should die in childbed. I shall not succumb to such sinful thoughts.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,
1 February 1624

Pam had been taken down to the theatre at nine thirty that morning. It had only been a light anaesthetic but she felt groggy. She closed her eyes, only half listening to the woman
who shared her room. The woman had had the same operation the previous day and was now fully recovered – and talkative. Pam was aware of the gist of the woman’s conversation and was conscious enough to make affirmative noises when required. But she wished she’d shut up and let her get some rest.

The woman had somehow got on to the subject of America. ‘It would be nice to get someone to do it all for you.’ Do what? Pam wasn’t concentrating. ‘It would save all this messing about.’ Pam managed a muffled yes, though she was in no condition to follow the woman’s arguments, her talk of ‘all those cases’. She just wanted to sink back into the pillows and sleep.

The woman droned on unheard for the next ten minutes until Wesley peeped cautiously round the door.

‘Here’s your husband,’ the woman announced triumphantly. To Wesley she said, ‘I think she’s still a bit tired – it takes it out of you, you know.’

At last Pam felt inclined to sit up and take notice. Wesley nodded to his wife’s room-mate and presented Pam with the flowers he’d bought. He hadn’t liked to come empty-handed. He kissed her.

‘How did it go?’

‘Don’t know yet. I think I’ve left my brain in the operating theatre. I just feel like sleeping.’

‘Has the doctor been in?’

As if on cue, before Pam had a chance to answer, Dr Downey oozed into the room followed by a frilly-hatted sister, handmaiden to the high priest.

‘Mr Peterson.’ He shook Wesley’s hand. ‘So glad you’re here. We’ve had a little look around inside Pamela and I’m pleased to be able to tell you everything appears quite normal. No sign of scarring or infection and all the other tests we’ve done so far have found nothing untoward.’

Pam hauled herself upright. She wasn’t sure whether this was the news she wanted to hear or not.

‘So what’s been the problem? I mean, there must be something…’

‘All I’m saying,’ Downey continued with smooth patience, ‘is that there doesn’t appear to be anything physically wrong.
Of course, there are further tests we can do. We’ll book you in for those if you wish. All right?’

He nodded to Wesley and turned to leave the room, having switched off his bedside manner.

Wesley, feeling superfluous, gave Pam a kiss on the forehead and left. Duty called. In the foyer he saw a familiar figure looming over the reception desk. It was time for work.

‘Hi there, Wes. How is she?’

‘Not too bad, thanks, sir. Still tired.’

‘So our friend’s finished with her, has he?’ Heffernan asked quietly. He didn’t want the receptionist to get any ideas.

‘Oh yes, sir. All done, for now. Until he wants more cash out of us,’ he added bitterly.

Heffernan spoke to the blonde in the unlikely-looking nurse’s uniform who sat behind the desk typing at a computer terminal. ‘Excuse me, love. Police. We’d like a word with Dr Downey.’

‘He’s doing his rounds at the moment. You’ll have to wait.’

Heffernan showed his warrant card. ‘Police, love. I think he’ll see us. Isn’t there some way of getting in touch with him?’

‘Well, er, yes, but…’

‘Then what are you waiting for, love?’ He looked at her, challenging. She knew when she was beaten and picked up the phone.

Dr Downey didn’t look pleased. He was a man used to deference. ‘Really, Inspector, I am on my rounds and …’

‘It won’t take long, Doctor. You know my colleague, DS Peterson?’

‘Yes. You should have told me you wished to see me in your professional capacity, Mr Peterson.’ He looked at Wesley with distaste, a contrast to his previous charming manner.

‘I didn’t like to mention it, sir … in front of my wife.’

Downey led them through into his office. Heffernan looked around admiringly. ‘So what can I do for you, gentlemen?’

‘I wonder if you remember a patient of yours, an Elaine Berrisford?’

‘I have to respect my patients’ confidentiality.’

‘I’m not asking you to give away any state secrets, I just want to know if she had a baby here.’

The doctor’s expression remained impassive, but Wesley thought he detected a slightly guarded look in his eyes. He turned to his computer terminal and tapped the keyboard. The information came up on the screen.

‘Yes, Mrs Berrisford had a son. Eight pounds two ounces, normal delivery. Named him Jonathon. Anything else?’

‘How come she had her baby here when they lived up near Manchester?’

‘I’ve really no idea, Inspector. Perhaps they liked the scenery. Now, if you’ve no more questions …’

‘Just one. What did Sharon Carteret come in here for?’

‘I beg your pardon? Who?’

‘Sharon Carteret. Shall I spell it for you?’

The inspector sat back like a cat watching a mouse while the doctor fumbled with the keyboard. There was no mistaking it; the man was nervous.

‘I’m sorry, Inspector. There’s nobody of that name in the patient records.’

‘Perhaps she was a member of staff,’ Wesley suggested helpfully.

‘I can’t recall anyone of that name.’

‘Well, thank you for your help, Doctor.’ Heffernan stood up. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

On that ominous note, they left the room. As soon as they were outside, the inspector spoke. ‘That’s given him something to think about, Wes. We’ll just leave him to stew for a bit.’

Dr Downey looked up a number in his leather-bound executive address book and picked up the phone.

The vicar leaned over his handiwork, deep concentration on his face. The Reverend Richardson was not a young man, but then neither was he old. But a receding hairline and thickening waist concentrated the mind wonderfully on hobbies and personal interests. And local history was his
particular obsession: he was the proud author of three volumes on the subject, prominently displayed in the local bookshop. He was fortunate in his calling: who better to have access to the records of the parish? The Almighty had placed the Reverend Richardson in the right location.

‘This is great. Just what we need. Can we use this in the exhibition?’ Neil was impressed with the painstakingly drawn-up family tree spread out on the table in front of them.

‘Of course, Neil. I’d be honoured … very honoured.’ The vicar’s face glowed with satisfaction. He would have hesitated to call it pride. ‘As you can see from the occupations, the Banizeds seem to have slipped down the social ladder in more recent times. These Victorian ones seem to have been fishermen, farmworkers – here’s one who worked in the boat yard …’