The Plague Maiden (25 page)

When they were level with the man in the pew, Neil stopped and stared. Pam pulled at his arm. ‘Come on, Neil, let’s take a
look at the tower.’

She had no wish to disturb the man’s prayers, especially not when she saw that he was crying.

As they opened the tower-room door, surprised to find it
unlocked, William Verlan looked up at the flickering candle flame, its small light misty through a veil of tears.

It had been raining that morning but now the sun was out, shining on the rolling landscape of Dartmoor, and the raindrops
caught on the trees, ground and hedgerows sparkled like diamonds on a bed of russet, green and gold. The trees stood out,
half naked, against the scurrying clouds. Soon all their leaves would be gone and they would be mere skeletons against the
vast, empty sky.

‘Some scenery,’ Wesley said softly.

‘Bleak in winter,’ was Heffernan’s verdict. ‘Are we on the right road?’

‘Don’t you trust my navigation?’

Heffernan didn’t answer. He was looking out of the window, taking in the view.

Ten minutes later they pulled up outside a low, rambling farmhouse. The grey stone building blended perfectly with the landscape
and looked as if it had always been there, like a pile of ancient rocks left behind by some prehistoric glacier. The name
Damascus Farm was written in neat white letters above the stone porch, topped by the outline of a fish. The area in front
of the house reminded Wesley of Rachel’s home, Little Barton Farm: the Dutch barns packed with hay bales; the cobbled farmyard;
the tractors kept under cover against the harshness of the Dartmoor winter. This was a working farm. And yet there was something
different about it, something Wesley couldn’t put his finger on.

As they got out of the car a stocky youth with a shaved head and tattooed neck wearing green overalls and matching wellington
boots emerged from behind the barn carrying a couple of galvanised steel buckets. The youth glanced at the newcomers but chose
to ignore them and hurried off.

The two policemen walked up to the front porch and rang the doorbell. After a few moments the door was opened by
a smiling man who greeted them warmly and invited them to step inside. Gerry Heffernan recognised Barry Castello from his
old mug shots, even though time had ploughed furrows in his flesh and grizzled his long, wiry hair. But he hadn’t been prepared
for the smile … or the openness in Castello’s brown eyes. If this man still hid secrets, he hid them well.

‘Welcome to Damascus Farm,’ Castello said as he led them into the front parlour, a shabby room with an eclectic variety of
furniture that looked like donated cast-offs. A log fire burning in the old stone hearth gave the room a homely feel.

Wesley sank down in a sagging flowered sofa while Heffernan chose a shapeless armchair, upholstered in threadbare orange sackcloth.
Castello stood with his back to the fire.

‘Now how can I help you, gentlemen?’ he began. His voice was deep with the telltale trace of a London accent. He smiled encouragingly,
as though he would welcome any questions they cared to ask … however awkward.

Wesley spoke first. ‘We understand you were a friend of the Reverend John Shipborne.’

Castello’s smile disappeared and was replaced by an expression of sincere sadness. ‘That’s right. John was a remarkable man …
a terrible loss. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d be inside now wasting my life. It was John who gave me the idea to start this
place … to give hope to youngsters who found themselves in the situation I’d been in.’

‘And does it work?’ Wesley asked, genuinely interested.

‘Oh yes. Some of our lads reoffend, of course. Can’t win’em all,’ he said with a self-deprecating smile. ‘But we have a remarkably
high success rate. We get them to think, you see. We make them believe in themselves and their abilities and show them there’s
a better way. We also tell them it might not be easy once they get out into the big wide world again with all its temptations …
but they know
we’re always here for them if they start to backslide. Sometimes we’re the first people who’ve actually cared what they do.
Their parents don’t … and to social services and their probation officers, however well intentioned, they’re just a reference
number … one in a long line. But we take an interest in them as individuals.’

Heffernan grunted. Somehow it sounded too pat … but perhaps he had been involved with criminals for so long that he had become
cynical. Wesley listened and said nothing.

‘So tell us about the Reverend Shipborne,’ Heffernan said. ‘What kind of man was he … apart from being a saint, that is?’

If Castello had noticed any sarcasm in Heffernan’s voice, he chose to ignore it. ‘John would have been the last to claim he
was any sort of saint. He was only too aware of his own failures.’

‘And what were they?’ Wesley said quickly.

Castello turned to him and smiled again. The smiles were starting to get on Heffernan’s nerves. ‘I really don’t know. If he
had any failings, I wasn’t aware of them. To me he was a sincere and humble man … a man who’d put God before his own career.’

‘Isn’t that what vicars are meant to do?’

‘I’m talking about the career he had before he joined the Church.’

Wesley sat forward on the floral sofa. ‘Which was?’

Another smile from Castello. ‘I think he was some sort of scientist … but
he never talked about it. He told me once that it was something he’d rather forget, which was strange, I suppose. I think
he was quite high up … well paid … because I remember him saying he’d taken a huge pay cut to go into the Church. I’m sorry,
but that’s all I can tell you.’

‘I’ve read the files so I know you had an alibi for the time of his death … but did any of the boys in your care know him?’

‘They saw him when he visited, chatted to him, that sort of thing. But I don’t think any of them knew him particularly well.
Why?’

‘I believe Dermot O’Donovan was here at one time.’

‘Yes. He was one of our success stories. I believe he runs his own building firm now.’ A smug smile played around his lips:
he almost looked like a proud parent, boasting of an offspring’s academic achievements.

‘Have you ever come across a boy called Philip Norbert?’ As far as they knew Norbert had no police record, but it was still
worth asking the question.

The smug smile disappeared and Castello shook his head. ‘The name doesn’t ring any bells. I can look it up in our files if
you like.’

Wesley said that he’d be grateful and Castello strolled out of the room. There was no urgency in his movements. Damascus Farm
was his territory and things moved at the pace Barry Castello dictated.

‘Well? Any ideas?’ Heffernan said in a low voice when he had gone.

Wesley gathered his thoughts before speaking. ‘He makes Shipborne sound like some sort of saint.’ He smiled sadly. ‘But I
suppose the concept of goodness is a difficult one for us policemen to grasp. We’re used to dealing with humanity at the other
end of the spectrum.’

‘So?’

‘I can’t help wondering if everything is as it appears to be here. Were Shipborne and Castello using this place as a cover
for something … for abusing the boys? Did Shipborne have some nasty skeletons in his closet? Did someone take their revenge?’

‘If that was the case, surely Castello would have been targeted as well.’

‘Perhaps Shipborne was using Castello to supply the boys and Castello knew nothing about it.’ He shook his head. ‘Or perhaps
I’m letting my imagination run away with me … seeing the bad in everyone.’

‘The job gets you like that sometimes.’ Heffernan sighed. ‘But it might be worth talking to some of these lads of Castello’s
alone … find out if he’s really as squeaky clean as he makes out. We can see how Castello reacts when we make the request.’

But when Castello returned with the news that the name Philip Norbert didn’t appear on his files, he said that he would be
glad to let them talk to the boys alone. He withdrew tactfully and they ended up seeing seven boys in all – all of them shifty
and inadequate rather than plain wicked – who all said that they were happy enough at Damascus Farm, although Wesley suspected
that a couple just regarded the place as a cushy alternative to the young offenders’ institution and would probably return
to their old ways in due course. He’d be looking out for them.

At the end of the interviews, Wesley found himself feeling very uneasy about the swiftness with which he’d been ready to suspect
Castello of sexual impropriety with the boys in his care. He said as much to his companion. ‘Have I just got a dirty mind,
Gerry?’

‘Nah. It’s because there’s so much about it in the news these days … children’s homes, naughty Catholic priests. When a couple
of blokes start taking young lads to an isolated farmhouse, even if it’s all quite innocent, it’s only natural that you start
to suspect the worst.’

‘So you don’t think … ?’

‘My gut reaction from talking to the lads tells me that it’s all above board. Well, Castello is anyway. Although there’s always
a chance that Shipborne …’

‘We’ll bear it in mind, then,’ said Wesley. ‘Maybe we should have another word with that Dermot O’Donovan and see what he’s
got to say about this place.’

‘Maybe we’re just starting to read too much into all this. Even if Hobson didn’t kill Shipborne, it doesn’t mean that the
motive wasn’t robbery.’

But their conversation was interrupted by Castello, who, knowing the interviews were over, entered the room
bearing two mugs of steaming tea … a temptation Heffernan could hardly resist. Castello settled down in an armchair next to
the fire and put his feet up on a stool. It was hard to believe a former armed robber could look so relaxed in the company
of two policemen.

‘You can’t really think that anyone here had anything to do with John’s death, surely? I have heard that Hobson’s case might
be going to appeal, by the way.’

‘And what do you think about that?’

‘Pleased. I never thought Chris Hobson was capable of killing anyone, let alone John.’

‘You knew Hobson?’

‘Not personally. But I know the type well. Petty criminal, shies away from any serious violence. He would have run if John
had caught him … his instinct would have been flight rather then fight, and I know John wouldn’t have done anything to provoke
him. Hobson would never have killed, especially in a frenzied attack like that. Although God only knows what all this time
in prison will have done to him,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘And you always got on well with the Reverend Shipborne?’ Wesley asked. ‘Never had any disagreements?’

‘No. Never.’

‘Did he seem worried about anything before his death? Had anything out of the ordinary happened?’ Wesley was clutching at
straws, but while he had Shipborne’s old friend with him it was worth asking any questions that came into his head.

Castello frowned. ‘Now you come to mention it, he wasn’t his usual self in the weeks leading up to his death. He was helping
a student from Morbay University with some research into local history, and I got the impression that he was uneasy about
it for some reason … although I can’t think why. And he seemed a bit upset about a row he’d had with the captain of his bell-ringers
– a man called Stephen Wilmer.’

‘Helen Wilmer’s father? The girl who went missing a
week after Shipborne died?

‘That’s right. John had locked up the church tower because it was found to be unsafe but Wilmer said it was unnecessary and
started making a fuss … even organised a petition. But that could hardly have had anything to do with his death.’

‘Probably not,’ said Wesley, looking at Heffernan.

They both sensed that they would get no more out of Castello … if there was anything to get. They’d given Damascus Farm a cursory
examination and had found nothing amiss. Whether this was because there was nothing to find or because they were looking in
the wrong places, Wesley didn’t know. But he was keeping an open mind.

‘Was that a waste of time?’ he asked as he drove south across the moor in the direction of Tradmouth.

‘Who knows, Wes. Maybe Shipborne was done in by an irate bell-ringer … it’s worth following up. And I’d like to know more about
Shipborne’s background. What happened to his personal effects?’

‘I’m sure we can find out. Maybe we should pay Stan Jenkins another visit.’

‘What about Helen Wilmer … is she connected with all this?’

Wesley didn’t answer. He had no idea what had gone on in Belsham all those years ago. And he felt he was no nearer finding
out the truth than when he had first heard Chris Hobson’s name.

Looking at the Reverend John Shipborne’s last will and testament, copied at the time of the investigation by some zealous
young detective constable, Wesley found that he had made a variety of bequests. Most of his personal effects had gone to his
niece, Anne Talbot, a doctor who lived up in Dundee. His books had been left to Morbay University. Mrs O’Donovan, his cleaner,
had inherited a thousand pounds and various charities had benefited from his posthumous generosity. Shipborne, in spite of
his modest
lifestyle, had left over half a million pounds and the bulk of his estate had gone to Damascus Farm.

Wesley still found it hard to forget that Castello had started life as an armed robber. And the old clichéd saying about a
leopard not being able to change its spots sprang unbidden into his mind.

Trish Walton had been asked to track down any evidence that had been stored in connection with the case, and it wasn’t long
before she struck lucky. There were two boxes of evidence stored in the cellars beneath the station. She looked down at her
cream-coloured trousers and sighed, fearing that it would be up to her to retrieve the boxes and knowing that the station
cellar wasn’t the cleanest of places. She had smiled at Steve Carstairs nicely in the hope he’d be a gentleman and volunteer,
but he made an excuse and left the office. So much for chivalry.

Half an hour later Trish, helped by a couple of uniformed constables from downstairs, deposited the two large dusty cardboard
boxes beside Wesley’s desk.