The Plague Maiden (29 page)

‘I’ll come right down. Then you can come home for a rest. You need one.’

When Wesley looked at himself in the dressing-table mirror, he saw that tears were pouring down his cheeks.

He heard the front door opening and a voice shouting. Neil. He’d almost forgotten about Neil.

‘You upstairs, Wes?’

Wesley grabbed a tissue and wiped his face as Neil burst in.

‘How’s Mike?’

‘Pam’s just rung. He’s going to be okay.’

‘Great. Hey, you’re not going to believe this, I’ve found the most amazing contemporary account of the plague in Belsham in
1348. It says … ’

‘Look, Neil, tell me about it another time, eh? I’ve got to get to the hospital.’

Neil followed him downstairs and watched him disappear out of the front door.

*

It was late when Wesley reached the police station the next day. But late was better than never. He had stayed by Michael’s
bedside while Pam went home for a well-earned rest, but when she returned a couple of hours later he excused himself, saying
there were things he had to do, although he was careful not to be too specific. However, Pam hadn’t been listening anyway:
she’d been too busy talking to Michael, reading him stories and chattering about this and that. He had opened his eyes and
smiled.

On reaching the CID office Wesley was greeted by enquiries about his son’s health. Even Steve Carstairs managed to look vaguely
sympathetic. After running the gauntlet of well-meaning questions, he reached Gerry Heffernan’s office and found the chief
inspector at his desk, the telephone to his ear. Wesley sat down and waited.

The telephone conversation was one sided and Wesley guessed that the person on the other end was giving Gerry grief. After
a minute or so of not being able to get a word in edgeways Heffernan said, ‘Yes, sir. I’ll see to that,’ put the receiver
down with a bang and blew a loud raspberry.

‘Chief Superintendent Nutter?’ Wesley made an informed guess.

‘He wants us to charge Philip Norbert with the Shipborne murder. Says it’ll make us look efficient if we charge someone as
soon as Hobson’s released. I told him it might be best to make sure that we’ve got the right man this time, but he didn’t
seem convinced by my brilliant argument.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Oh dear indeed. I’ve heard the good news about your Michael … ’ He grinned widely. ‘Now if we can just clear up these cases,
we’ll be able to start celebrating.’

Wesley looked sceptical and said nothing.

‘Had any thoughts? Or has your mind been elsewhere?’

‘Oh I’ve had thoughts. In fact, while I was at the hospital I had a chance to look at Shipborne’s diary.’

‘And?’

‘Well, I can see why it was dismissed as unimportant at the time, but in view of recent developments I think it’s worth looking
at. It’s full of interesting snippets. Would you believe William Verlan and Amy Hunting were having an affair?’

Heffernan’s mouth fell open.

‘She even told the Reverend Shipborne about it … went to the vicarage to make some sort of confession. Helen Wilmer and Dermot
O’Donovan get a mention as well. And Helen Wilmer’s father.’

Heffernan pushed his paperwork to one side and leaned forward. ‘Go on.’

‘There’s a lot about a Barnaby Poulson, a student of Verlan’s who was writing a thesis about the plague. Reading between the
lines, Shipborne was worried about what this Poulson was digging up. Barry Castello features quite a lot too … sounds as if
Shipborne had a very high opinion of him.’

‘Interesting. What does he say about O’Donovan and Helen Wilmer?’

Wesley took a deep breath. ‘Well, Dermot O’Donovan was a bad lad but we knew that already. And Shipborne had some kind of
row with Helen Wilmer’s father about the church tower being locked up.’

‘So Shipborne knew Amy Hunting?’

‘Yes. She went to see him and told him about her affair with William Verlan. It says she asked Shipborne about some trial
in the 1970s … he said he’d mentioned it in a sermon. I’d like to know more about Shipborne’s background. If it was assumed
that he was murdered in the course of a robbery, I don’t suppose anybody bothered to find out much about his past.’

‘You don’t think Philip Norbert’s responsible, then?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘I think there’s more to the Shipborne case than meets the eye. The diary’s full and the last entry
is a couple of weeks before the murder. I’m wondering if he started another – if it wasn’t bloodstained
like the earlier one it might have been sent to the niece in Scotland with his other effects.’

‘Why don’t you give the niece a ring?’

Wesley added this to his mental list of things to do, which was becoming longer by the hour. ‘So what have I been missing?
What’s the latest on Loveday Wilkins and William Verlan?’

‘Loveday’s been charged but she’s waiting to be examined by a psychiatrist. Her father hasn’t been to see her, which isn’t
that surprising in the circumstances. As for Verlan, he’s stuck to this story about running Helen Wilmer over by accident,
even when I told him that Colin Bowman found evidence that she was strangled. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was telling
the truth.’

‘Perhaps he is.’

‘Then why bury her … why try and dig her up again to destroy the evidence and attack your mate Neil?’

‘And he knew Shipborne. Could Helen have seen him leaving Shipborne’s house on the night of the murder? Did he kill her to
keep her quiet?’

Heffernan looked impressed. ‘It’s possible. But we’ve got to prove it.’

‘But why would he kill Shipborne in the first place?’

‘If Shipborne knew about his affair with Amy Hunting, he might have known about other secrets from his past … things he wanted
hidden. I’d like to know if this trial has something to do with it. Could it be a case involving Verlan … or Barry Castello?’

‘I’ll get someone to check it out. Although we don’t even know where it was held. Was it at Exeter … or the Old Bailey?’

‘Wherever it was, there’ll be a record of it somewhere. Finding it’ll keep someone out of mischief for a while.’ Heffernan
grinned again.

The telephone rang. Heffernan answered it, and after a brief conversation he sighed and shouted to Trish, ‘William Verlan’s
brief is here. You’d better show our
next lucky contestant down to interview room two.’

‘What, sir?’

‘Sorry, Trish. Tell the custody sergeant I want to have a word with William Verlan. I take it he’s still enjoying our hospitality …
he hasn’t escaped or anything?’

Trish looked at him, not knowing what response was expected. Erring on the side of caution, she said nothing as she left the
room.

Fifteen minutes later William Verlan was sitting where Loveday had sat, his solicitor, a young man who looked as though he
was straight out of the sixth form, by his side. Unlike Loveday, Verlan looked frightened. He was being held for the assault
on Dr Neil Watson, but as he had decided to confess to killing Helen Wilmer, it was only a matter of time before he was formally
charged with murder and the whole rumbling process of the law began. But somehow, in spite of this, he felt better for having
confessed, for having got the secret sins of all those years ago off his chest.

‘You had time to think about your story, Dr Verlan?’ Heffernan said when the tape was running.

‘Yes. I don’t want to change my statement. I ran the girl over. I panicked and buried her body. It was a dumb thing to do,
I know that now.’

Heffernan paused to read some papers on the desk in front of him. ‘You see, Dr Verlan, the pathologist is absolutely sure
Helen Wilmer was strangled. And if you really thought you’d run her over accidentally, why did you go to so much trouble to
hide her body?’

‘I told you. I panicked. I was tired … jet-lagged. I’d had too much to drink on the plane so I was probably over the limit
and … I just panicked. And I didn’t go to that much trouble. There was an open ditch dug in the field and a spade there beside
it: all I had to do was tip her in and cover her up with soil. I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time.’

‘And you tried to dig up the site of her grave. Why was
that? Why go to so much trouble? Surely, even if they did identify her, they wouldn’t connect her with you?’

Verlan shook his head. ‘I told you … I’d lost my St Christopher. It was a present from my sister in the States and I thought
it might have been traced to me. And just before … just before it happened a student of mine was researching the history of
Belsham at the time of the Black Death and he suspected that plague victims had been buried in Pest Field. I reckoned that
someone might have put two and two together and realised that I could have known there was a plague pit there and buried her
with the other skeletons. I guessed I’d be the number-one suspect. I wasn’t thinking straight. I panicked.’

‘How well did you know the Reverend Shipborne?’

Verlan looked surprised at the change of subject. ‘I went to church sometimes
but I wouldn’t say I knew him well. I asked him if the student I mentioned could do some research in Belsham church. He was
keen to cooperate at first but … ’

‘But what?’

‘Barnaby said that when he told Shipborne what he’d discovered, Shipborne’s attitude changed and he said he couldn’t help
any more. Barnaby wanted to bring in experts to examine some medieval graffiti in the tower but Shipborne locked the place
up. He said it was unsafe and nobody was allowed in there, but that was the first I’d heard of it.’

‘I’d like to talk to this Barnaby. Do you have an address where he can be contacted?’

Verlan closed his eyes for a moment and lowered his head. ‘Barnaby Poulson died in a car accident shortly after he was awarded
his doctorate. It was a tragic business. He was such a promising historian.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Heffernan. ‘I’m afraid I have some more bad news for you, Mr Verlan. Amy Hunting killed herself
last night. Jumped in the river.’ He watched Verlan, waiting for a reaction.

The shock on Verlan’s face seemed genuine. It would have been difficult to fake that momentary flash of astonishment followed
by the look of utter desolation.

‘We also think her daughter, Loveday, was threatening Mr Hunting’s business. Did you know her daughter?’

Verlan shook his head. ‘Amy mentioned once that she had a daughter but she said she hardly ever saw her.’

‘Did that upset her?’

‘She didn’t seem too upset about it.’

‘Did she ever mention a son … Adam?’

Verlan looked wary. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘What was your relationship with Amy Hunting?’ It was the first time Wesley had spoken and Verlan looked at him curiously.

His face reddened. ‘Carnal initially.’

‘And then?’

‘For a short time I thought I was in love with her … or perhaps I just felt sorry for her … I don’t know.’

‘Who finished it?’

Verlan looked embarrassed. ‘I guess it was kind of mutual. I found out that she’d been to see the Reverend Shipborne to confess
that we were having an affair … goodness knows why. I made excuses not to see her after that. I liked to consider myself part
of the village community and I went to that church sometimes so I found it embarrassing that Shipborne knew. I told Amy it
put me in an awkward position, and she said that if I felt like that we’d better stop seeing each other. That suited me because
by that time she was starting to act a bit weird. I mean, why tell the vicar … ?’

‘Did you ever discuss a court case with Mrs Hunting … something the Reverend Shipborne had mentioned during a service?’

Again Verlan looked puzzled. ‘A court case? Not that I can remember. Why?’

‘How well did you know Helen Wilmer?’

Again Verlan looked surprised by the change of subject.
‘Not well. I knew she was a student who lived in the village and she taught in the Sunday school at one time. Doesn’t that
prove that I killed her by accident? I had no reason to want her dead … none at all. I hardly knew the girl.’

‘Did you find her attractive?’

The young solicitor roused himself from his daydreams and asked whether the question was relevant.

‘Well, if the motive for strangling Helen wasn’t personal, it might have been sexual.’

Verlan leaned forward. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t strangle her. I ran her over by accident.’

‘So you won’t change your statement?’

It would have been too much for Heffernan to hope that the answer would be ‘yes’.

Wesley and Heffernan walked back upstairs in silence. Wesley followed the chief inspector into his office out of habit and
sat himself down by the desk.

‘Verlan’s sticking to his story.’

‘Yeah. Our lecherous lecturer isn’t being much help, is he? I reckon he was having a bit of how’s-your-father with the lovely
Helen of Belsham and it got out of hand.’

‘He said he didn’t know anything about any court case.’

‘He might be being economical with the truth.’ Heffernan sighed. ‘One funny thing, Wes: when me and Rach were looking through
Amy Hunting’s things we came across photos of Loveday when she was a kid with a little boy a bit younger than her. Hunting
said it was his son, Adam. Now Verlan knew about Loveday but nothing about any son. Funny.’

‘So where is this son?’

Heffernan frowned, annoyed with himself. ‘I never asked. I assumed he’d grown up and left home years ago, I didn’t think it
was important.’

‘It might not be. But I suppose we’ll have to pay Hunting another visit and find out. I wonder why Loveday hates her father
so much. What went wrong?’ Wesley gave Heffernan a meaningful look. ‘Sexual abuse?’

‘That’s the first thing that springs to mind these days but she says not.’

Heffernan’s telephone rang. He swore under his breath, pushed a heap of files out of the way, and picked up the receiver.
After a brief conversation he looked at Wesley. ‘That was the custody suite. Loveday wants to see us. She says it’s important.
She says she’s decided to tell us everything.’

The first sermon of Richard Thorsleigh, Abbot of Morre Abbey (Exeter Cathedral archives), states that:

‘There was one in the village of Belsham near this Abbey’s lands, called Robert de Munerie, an arrogant young man of good
family who, not mindful of God or his fellow man, dabbled in witchcraft, and it is said by some that he conjured Satan himself.
This Robert befriended a common harlot of Tradmouth when the pestilence did rage in that town, some say carried in by ships
from afar. The woman was stricken but, through Satan’s power so he claimed, Robert himself did not fall sick.’

There are no surviving manorial records to confirm the existence of this young woman. In fact the only contemporary references
to Robert de Munerie, other than in Abbot Thorsleigh’s sermons, are to be found in the tower of Belsham parish church. There
is a cryptic request to pray for Robert’s soul, be he alive or dead, on his father, Urien’s, tomb, and a remarkable piece
of graffiti survives in the tower of Belsham parish church which says, ‘The dregs of the people beg for thy mercy, o Lord.
I Hammo, priest, set this down in the twenty-first year of the reign of King Edward, the third of that name, and beg all Christian
people, if there be any left alive, to pray for the souls of those cast into the pit in the church field. King Death has reigned
over us and
may God forgive Robert de Munerie for bringing him to this place. I die now and confess my many sins. Have mercy upon us,
o Lord, your miserable people.’

This heartrending memorial to the ordeal of the villagers of Belsham can be seen on the north wall of the tower of St Alphage’s
church, Belsham, to this day
.

Extract from Barnaby Poulson’s PhD thesis

Loveday Wilkins sat on the grey plastic chair in the interview room. She shifted nervously and the chair scraped on the lino
floor. Wesley had already set the tape running and now he waited to hear what she had to say. He didn’t try to rush her: he
knew that would have been useless. Heffernan sat beside him, watching Loveday’s face. But her expression gave nothing away.

‘Have you been there?’ she said.

Wesley looked at her calmly. ‘Where?’

‘To the house. To my dad’s house.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see it? Did you see the room?’

Wesley glanced at Gerry Heffernan. ‘What room’s this?’

Loveday sat back. There was the ghost of a smirk on her face.

‘Why don’t you tell us about it?’ said Wesley gently.

Loveday looked him in the eye. ‘Have you got kids?’

Wesley hesitated before answering. He didn’t want this to get personal. ‘I’ve got a son. Why?’

‘What would you do if he died?’

Her words hit Wesley like an electric shock and Gerry Heffernan glanced at him, sensing his discomfort. ‘Come on, love, what
are you getting at?’ he growled.

Loveday pressed her lips tightly together and sat back, her eyes focused on the empty plastic cup in front of her.

‘What happened to your brother?’ Wesley asked softly.

‘He was ill. He died.’

‘What was wrong with him?’

Loveday shrugged her shoulders. ‘Something to do with his heart … he had an operation.’ She leaned forward, her mouth forming
the semblance of a snarl. ‘They never forgave me, you know. Never forgave me for living when he’d died. She didn’t want me
after Adam was born. I was just in the way.’

Wesley said nothing. He waited for her to continue.

‘They hardly spoke to me again after he died. I had a series of nannies and I made their lives hell.’ She smiled. ‘I set fire
to his precious boat once and they sent me away to boarding schools but none of them could cope with me. I wish everyone had
just told the truth and said they hated me.’ She began to sob uncontrollably. Wesley turned to the policewoman by the door
and signalled that the interview was over.

‘I think that’s enough for now, love. We’ll carry on when you’re feeling up to it,’ Heffernan said after muttering the required
words into the tape recorder and switching the machine off.

As she was being led out of the room, Loveday turned to them. ‘Go to the house and look at the room. You’ll understand when
you’ve seen it.’

As soon as she had gone, Heffernan stood up. ‘I suppose we’d better pay a call on Aaron Hunting and have a look at this room,
if it exists. Get someone to go through Amy Hunting’s personal effects, will you. Tell them we want any keys she had with
her. You never know.’

Wesley stayed silent as he followed the chief inspector out into the corridor. An hour later, when Rachel had managed to track
down the keys found in Amy Hunting’s handbag, they headed for Hunting Moon House. If they found Aaron Hunting at home, they
had the excuse of visiting to bring him up to date on his daughter’s situation. If not, they would play things by ear. But
they knew that by some means they had to see the room Loveday had mentioned. She had been quite emphatic: once they had seen
the room they would understand her actions. And both Wesley and Heffernan hated loose ends.

Corazón, the maid, answered the door. She stood on the threshold and told them in heavily accented English that Mr
Hunting wasn’t at home. This was the first time Wesley had been able to study her closely. It was hard to guess her age but
she wasn’t in the first flush of youth. She was slightly built but the baggy black dress she wore did a good job of hiding
any curves she possessed, giving her body a boyish appearance, and a black Alice band held back a glossy curtain of shoulder-length
jet-black hair. Her dark brown eyes, lowered modestly, gave nothing away.

Wesley, as usual, was worrying about small details like search warrants, but Heffernan had no such hang-ups. He stepped nimbly
past Corazón and marched into the hallway. Wesley had no choice but to follow.

‘We’ve just been speaking to Mr Hunting’s daughter and she asked us to have a look around. That okay, love?’ He didn’t wait
for an answer but began to march down the hallway, opening doors.

Corazón followed them anxiously. ‘You should ask Mr Hunting. I should not let you … ’

‘It’s okay, love. Mr Hunting wouldn’t mind.’ Gerry Heffernan was at his smoothest … not a common sight. Wesley followed and
said nothing.

There was no sign of any remarkable room downstairs, although it occurred to Wesley that the room, if it existed, might have
been transformed into something quite mundane like a bedroom since Loveday had lived in the house. They continued their search
upstairs with Corazón at their heels, determined not to let them out of her sight, and each door they opened led to bedrooms
or bathrooms, all large and well appointed. As they opened the last door, they were starting to conclude that either the mysterious
room was now unrecognisable or Loveday had been lying.

But Wesley turned to Corazón; one last shot was worth a try. ‘Do you know of any other rooms in the house … perhaps one that’s
kept locked?’

Corazón stared at him and said nothing. But she was useless at pretending. Her expression gave away the fact that he’d hit
the jackpot.

‘Where is it?’

Corazón hesitated. Then she began to walk towards Amy Hunting’s bedroom. They followed her in. In one corner was a white panelled
door that they had taken for a connecting door on their first inspection of the room. Corazón walked over to the door and
tried the handle, as though to demonstrate that it was locked.

‘Have you got the key?’

‘No. It has always been locked ever since I come here. Mrs Hunting, she tell me to keep away.’

‘So Mrs Hunting had the key?’ Heffernan fished in his pocket, brought out Amy Hunting’s keys and jangled them about triumphantly,
pleased that they’d had the foresight to bring them.

He went over to the door and tried various keys in the lock. The last one he tried fitted. He turned it slowly and pushed
open the door.

He stood aside and allowed Wesley to enter first. Wesley took a step into the room and stopped so suddenly that Heffernan
almost cannoned into him. The gaily patterned curtains, lined with blackout material, were drawn, allowing no light to seep
in from the outside world. Wesley flicked the light switch inside the door and the electric bulb above him blazed.

It was a child’s room … a little boy’s room, spacious and thickly carpeted with not a thing out of place. The bed was covered
with a bright quilt, decorated with capering clowns. The shelves that lined the walls were crammed with colourful toys: building
bricks, cars, soft toys and brightly coloured books. The drawers and wardrobes contained an array of small clothes and a bright
plastic toy car, big enough for a child to sit in, stood by the side of the bed. It reminded Wesley of an Egyptian tomb where
the deceased’s possessions were piled up around him for use in the journey to the afterlife. This was Adam Hunting’s shrine
and, as in all the best shrines, the most personal relics were placed on the altar.

Wesley walked up to the pine dressing table, which was covered with a snowy damask cloth and flanked by a pair of candlesticks
with half-burned candles and rivulets of dripped wax that had spilled down and dripped onto the dark blue carpet. Two square
silver boxes, decorated with art nouveau foliage, lay in the centre of the table, and Wesley picked one up and opened it.
Inside he found what looked like nail clippings, and when he examined the other he found that it contained a lock of dark
brown hair. Adam’s hair.

‘Poor woman,’ was Wesley’s only comment.

‘I think we’ve seen enough, Wes. Let’s get out of here.’

Wesley felt the same. They left the room, switching off the light and locking the door behind them.

The room had made them forget about Corazón, who was waiting anxiously in the bedroom. She was shifting from foot to foot.
Wesley smiled at her reassuringly. ‘Did you know what was in the room, Corazón?’

She shook her head vigorously. ‘Mrs Hunting, she would go in there for hours and lock the door behind her. She said I must
never go in.’

‘Weren’t you curious?’

Corazón shook her head. If she had been curious about the locked room she certainly wasn’t going to admit it to a pair of
police officers.

‘Where is Mr Hunting? Do you know?’

‘He is going to the office in Plymouth then to Morbay.’

‘Thanks, love. We’ll catch up with him later.’ Heffernan tapped the side of his nose and put his face close to hers. ‘And
I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention our visit. No need to upset Mr Hunting, is there? We’ll talk to him about it next time
we see him. All right?’

Corazón looked at him like a frightened rabbit and nodded.

Wesley didn’t speak until they reached the gate. ‘Do you think we’re anywhere nearer understanding why Loveday did what she
did?’

Heffernan shrugged. ‘Rejected by her parents for being
the one who survived when the favourite didn’t. I reckon I can understand … sort of.’

‘We still don’t know what killed little Adam.’

‘That’s a question for Aaron Hunting … when we track him down.

On his return to the office Wesley sat down at his desk and began to play with his pen, deep in thought. He glanced at Rachel
and saw that she was watching him. She gave him a shy smile and returned her attention to her computer screen. He was about
to ask her how her hunt for a flat of her own was progressing but decided against it.

Nobody had actually been charged with the murders of the Reverend Shipborne and Helen Wilmer yet, although the two chief suspects
were still in custody and undergoing questioning. And as for Loveday Wilkins, her case had an air of tragedy … a disturbed
young woman lashing out at her neglectful family rather than a cunning blackmailer poisoning Huntings’ goods for their own
gain. Edith Sommerby and the mother and daughter who had been so ill had been unwitting victims, caught up in something that
they knew nothing about. Loveday had been charged and remanded for psychiatric reports.

He looked up and saw Steve Carstairs walking into the office, strolling as if he had all the time in the world.

‘Have you managed to find out anything about the Reverend Shipborne’s background yet?’ Wesley asked him.

Steve blushed. ‘I’m still working on it.’

‘You could try asking Barry Castello at Damascus Farm. He might know something.’

Steve hesitated.

‘Take Paul with you when you go and see him.’

Steve nodded reluctantly and ambled over to the filing cabinets at the end of the office. Wesley had always suspected that
somewhere deep inside Steve Carstairs there was a good police officer waiting to get out … it was just that he was taking
rather a long time to emerge.

Gerry Heffernan was standing in his doorway, like a squire surveying his acres with proprietorial pride. He caught Wesley’s
eye and beckoned him into his office.

‘How’s your Michael?’ he began as he slumped down into his executive leather chair, now rather worn at the edges and moulded
to the shape of his backside.

‘Pam rang me from the hospital a few minutes ago and said he was sitting up and demanding ice cream. They’re letting him home
later today.’

Heffernan leaned back with an ominous creak and put his hands behind his head, smiling beatifically as though all was right
with his world. Disasters averted, criminals locked up. But Wesley had an uneasy feeling that this was just the calm before
some kind of storm.

‘I’ve asked Steve and Paul to check out the Reverend Shipborne’s background. And then there’s the question of who strangled
Helen Wilmer if William Verlan didn’t.’

Heffernan grunted, annoyed that Wesley had destroyed his temporary idyll. ‘Well, at least we’ve cleared up the supermarket
poisonings.’

‘We still have to get a statement from Aaron Hunting.’ Wesley thought for a moment. ‘And I want to know how his son died.’

‘Probably quite irrelevant, Wes. But we’ll have to speak to him. We don’t want him moaning to the Chief Constable that we’ve
been neglecting him, do we?’ Heffernan paused. ‘How about having another word with that Dermot O’Donovan about Helen Wilmer?
If a girl gets herself strangled, it’s as well to start looking at the boyfriend.’