The Plague Maiden (16 page)

‘Sure as I can be … but I need proof. There must be some mention of it somewhere.’

Neil was hobbling painfully towards Pest Field. Pam locked the car quickly and followed after him, hovering behind with a
frown of concern like a nurse whose convalescent patient is trying to walk for the first time after an accident. ‘Take it
easy,’ she said with the firm tone of the experienced schoolteacher she was. Neil ignored her and pressed ahead.

The field had been screened off with temporary wooden
fencing so that the lifting of the skeletons would be shielded from public view. Neil squeezed through a gap, as determined
as a guided missile. Pam followed, not quite knowing what to expect on the other side of the barrier. This was Neil’s world,
and it had once been Wesley’s before he chose to join the police; but Pam knew little of bones and trenches and she wasn’t
sure that she wanted to know more. The gap was just wide enough for her to squeeze through, hampered as she was by her growing
belly.

Once through, she stood by the gap and waited, watching as Neil made his painful way over the rough terrain to where a group
of people were digging. The first thing that struck her was that they weren’t dressed like archaeologists. They wore hooded
white overalls and some had covered their faces with white masks. When they saw Neil, one of them stopped what he was doing
and walked over to him. After a brief conversation, Neil turned back and rejoined Pam.

‘Well?’ she said as he limped towards her.

‘They’re not working on our trench today. The police forensic team are giving the field a good going over and Matt and Jane
are helping. It’s about that body that was found …’

‘Wes mentioned it … said it was recent … a murder.’

‘Yeah. I reckon whoever attacked me was the murderer after the body. Probably buried her there and got the shock of his life
when he saw all these archaeologists digging near the place where he’d left her and thought it would only be a matter of time
before his dirty deed was discovered. I bet he intended to remove some incriminating clue but I disturbed him.’

‘Does Wes agree with this theory?’

He grinned. ‘He will do if he’s got any sense. I wonder if the bastard knew about all those other skeletons buried in the
field. What a place to dispose of a body. Quite funny when you think about it.’

‘The best place to hide a tree is in a forest. Perhaps he thought if it was ever found it would just be taken for another
plague victim.’

‘But some of the things that were buried with her were obviously modern … her belt, her watch … the coins in her bag. Matt
said they found a chain with a St Christopher near the skeleton too … obviously fairly modern.’

‘Perhaps that’s what he was intending to remove when you disturbed him. If they hadn’t been with the bones then she could
have been taken for just another medieval skeleton. That could be why he was using a metal detector … her belt buckle, and
so on. In which case it means the murderer knew all about the other skeletons … about the plague pit.’

Neil shrugged but the movement made him wince with pain. ‘It’s possible, I suppose. But we didn’t know about them when we
started the dig. We were told it might be the site of a leper hospital so I don’t see who could have known what was down there.’

Pam glanced at him. He looked pale. ‘Well, now you’ve seen that Matt’s got everything under control perhaps we ought to get
back.’

‘I heard something odd the other day. That vicar of Belsham who was murdered had the church tower locked up permanently …
even stopped the church bells being rung. He said it was dangerous but Wes and I went in and it didn’t look dangerous to me.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t like bells … or his bell-ringers.’

Neil wasn’t listening. ‘Wes and I saw some tombs in the tower from the time of the Black Death. I’d like to go there again
and take a better look. And I’d like to know why the vicar closed it up.’

Pam smiled patiently. ‘You think he was hiding something in there?’

‘You’d think he would have been proud of having some fine medieval tombs in his church.’

‘Perhaps not everyone is as fascinated by that sort of
thing as you are, Neil.’ She turned round and started to head for the car. ‘And perhaps he was telling the truth: perhaps
the tower is dangerous. Are you coming back or what?’ She looked at her watch. Her mother was looking after Michael so there
was no rush, but her legs were beginning to ache. She wanted to sit down, preferably with a refreshing cup of tea.

But Neil had other ideas. ‘There’s an American bloke in the village who lectures in history at Morbay University. He’s just
got back from a sabbatical in Boston and I want to see if he’s at home. He only lives on the other side of the church. He
might know something about the tombs.’

‘He’ll be at work,’ Pam mumbled hopefully.

She saw that Neil was wavering. Perhaps, in his present state of health, he didn’t feel up to chasing this American for information
after all. But Belsham offered other possibilities. ‘Isn’t Wes’s sister’s boyfriend going to be vicar here?’

‘Yes. I believe he is. Why?’ She looked at Neil suspiciously. He was up to something.

‘Well, I thought, as there’s going to be a family connection, you might fancy looking round the church.’

His hopeful expression reminded Pam of an appealing spaniel. She knew when she was beaten. At least churches had pews where
you could rest your weary legs. ‘Why not?’ she answered with a sigh.

‘I think we handled Mr Aaron Hunting quite well, don’t you?’ Gerry Heffernan sounded pleased with himself.

Wesley didn’t answer. He turned the car onto the main road out of Tradmouth. The traffic was heavier than usual at that time
of the day and he found himself wondering why.

Heffernan looked at him. ‘Anything the matter?’

‘Why should there be?’

‘You’ve been quiet ever since we left Hunting’s place. Something wrong?’

Wesley hesitated before answering. ‘While I was looking for the loo at Hunting’s place I heard a woman crying in one of the
upstairs rooms. I wondered if it was the wife.’

‘Well, being an invalid must get her down. Or maybe it was some homesick foreign maid. Is it bothering you?’

Wesley shrugged. ‘As you say, it’s probably nothing.’

‘Worth looking into?’

‘Not at the top of our list of priorities, I shouldn’t think. What’s Stan Jenkins’s address?’

‘Topiary Cottage, Wishburn, near Stokeworthy. According to Stan, we can’t miss it.’

‘That’s what they always say.’

He took the Stokeworthy turning off the main road and drove on down a narrow lane, just wide enough for two smallish cars
to pass. After half a mile the road narrowed to a single track with the occasional passing place. The hedgerows either side
of the lane rose up like solid walls. These roads had terrified Wesley when he had first arrived in Devon and he still viewed
them with some trepidation. If an idiot with a fast car and slow concentration happened to be coming the other way, you wouldn’t
stand a chance.

They passed through the village of Stokeworthy and Wesley shuddered as he drove past the churchyard. The sight of the great
yew tree in its centre – where, a couple of years before, a woman had been found hanging, murdered – brought back unpleasant
memories of death. Wesley had found her killer but it had been a tragic case and it still filled him with sadness whenever
he thought of it. He averted his eyes and carried on past the thatched Ring o’ Bells. Gerry Heffernan gazed out at the pub
longingly from the car window but there was no time for a lunch-time pint, however swift. There was work to do.

Stan Jenkins had been right. You certainly couldn’t miss Topiary Cottage, although the term ‘cottage’ was a little misleading.
It was a modern bungalow with pale pink walls and fussy floral curtains at the gleaming picture windows, and it stood on the
edge of the village of Wishburn, next
door to the new village hall and set back from the road behind a long expanse of garden. But what set it apart from the average
rural retirement bungalow was its display of hedges cut into a variety of startling shapes. A pair of proud green cockerels
guarded the gleaming white wrought-iron gate and leafy birds and squirrels formed a guard of honour either side of the garden
path. Nearer the house a rather phallic green truncheon grew out of the weedless soil – or at least, Wesley assumed it was
a truncheon – next to what looked like a pair of beautifully clipped handcuffs. He assumed this was Stan’s little joke. And
from what he had heard about Mrs Jenkins, Stan needed all the laughs he could get.

Stan opened the door to them before they had a chance to ring the bell. He had been waiting. He invited them in with almost
pathetic eagerness, greeting them as a man stranded on a desert island for a year would greet his rescuers.

‘Come in, come in. Good to see you. Ursula’s out at the moment,’ he gabbled. ‘I’ll just go and put the kettle on.’

‘Good topiary,’ was the first thing Wesley said. ‘Who does it?’

‘It’s become rather a hobby of mine since I retired. The place is called Topiary Cottage and the previous owners had attempted
a couple of deformed ducks but I think I’ve made it a bit of a landmark.’ He grinned with pride.

‘I like the truncheon and handcuffs,’ said Wesley.

‘Well, I thought I should make some mention of my former profession. The truncheon caused a bit of a stir, though … until
I explained what it was, of course.’

‘Good to have a hobby to get you out of the house, eh, Stan.’ Heffernan winked conspiratorially.

‘I’ve got a very nice shed. Want to take a look?’

They allowed Stan to lead the way out of the kitchen door, through the back garden and into a large shed screened from the
house by a tall hedge. Stan had cut crenellations into the top of the hedge and Wesley guessed
that this was symbolic. It was his castle, his fortress: all it lacked was a drawbridge to keep the marauding Mrs Jenkins
at bay.

Stan’s shed turned out to be a little home from home. A selection of gardening tools were stored neatly in a cupboard in one
corner but the rest of the structure appeared to be dedicated purely to pleasure. Wesley spotted a radio and CD player; a
small drinks cabinet (well stocked); a kettle and toaster; and even a battered chaise longue. As well as all this there was
a pair of well-worn wicker chairs to provide rest for the weary gardener.

‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ Heffernan said appreciatively, and Wesley nodded in agreement.

‘Thank you, Gerry. You’re welcome any time. Drink? And don’t give me any of that “not while I’m on duty” nonsense. Boddingtons
okay?’ He took a bright yellow beer can from the drinks cabinet and handed it to Heffernan. ‘What about you, Wesley? What’ll
you have?’

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to use the “not while I’m on duty” excuse. I’m driving.’ He smiled. Stan was trying so hard.

‘That’s a pity. I’ve got some tonic water somewhere. Will that do?’

‘That’ll be fine. Thanks.’

Stan poured himself a rather large vodka, explaining that Ursula wouldn’t be able to smell it on his breath, and settled down
on the chaise longue, looking at his former colleagues with eager anticipation. ‘I trust this isn’t just a social call?’

It was Heffernan who spoke. ‘I’m afraid not, Stan. We’re reopening the Shipborne case.’

Wesley watched as Stan Jenkins downed the contents of his glass in one gulp.

‘May I ask why?’ The words had come out in a nervous squeak.

Something was worrying Stan Jenkins and Wesley wondered what it was. He found it hard to imagine that a man like Stan would
have become knowingly involved in
any form of police corruption. Detective Inspector Jenkins had always had the reputation of being a dead straight, if rather
unimaginative, copper.

‘A new witness has come forward and Chris Hobson is now the proud owner of a cast-iron alibi. His appeal’s going forward and
the Nutter’s going berserk, as you can imagine. Now you worked on the case under Geoff Norbert …’

‘That’s true … but I was only a humble DS … his bagman.’

‘But you knew everything that was going on?’ said Wesley, who had recently been promoted from DS himself. ‘You would have
known if any evidence was suppressed or …’

‘Geoff Norbert always played things very close to his chest but I always had the impression …’ He hesitated.

‘Go on,’ Wesley prompted.

Stan turned to Heffernan. ‘I don’t want to be disloyal, Gerry. The man’s dead. He can’t defend himself.’

‘From which I take it you’ve got something to tell me.’

Stan shook his head. ‘No. I mean, the evidence was there. We had a tip-off and the stolen silver was found hidden in Hobson’s
flat and he’d been seen in the pub near the vicarage. There was enough to convict him.’

Wesley took a drink of his tonic water and looked Stan in the eye. ‘But?’

He waited. Stan was obviously struggling to make some sort of decision.

After a while he spoke. ‘Well, I suppose there were some things that I thought were a bit odd at the time … lines of enquiry
that weren’t followed up, that sort of thing. But as I said, we had the evidence. We had enough to get a conviction.’

‘But you thought something wasn’t quite right?’

‘It was nothing as definite as that. It’s hard to explain.’

Heffernan leaned forward. ‘Try us.’

‘Well, as I said, certain things weren’t followed up. For
instance, Hobson said he saw a lad hanging around outside the vicarage. Geoff Norbert said it would be a waste of time checking
it out.’

Heffernan grinned. ‘He was probably right. If I had a fiver for every time a villain claimed to have seen a mysterious figure
hanging around at the scene of a crime I’d be a tax exile by now.’ He took a swig from his can and wiped his mouth with the
back of his hand.

‘But this was different?’ Wesley suggested. ‘There was something about his story that rang true or you wouldn’t be mentioning
it.’

‘The difference was that he was very specific. He said he’d seen this lad in the pub and described him in detail … even said
he’d seen him before at some school or other. Now when they’re lying they’re usually vague … they can’t remember what pub
it was, that sort of thing. But he was quite definite.’