The Plague Maiden (30 page)

‘He had an alibi for the time she disappeared … I’ve checked.’

‘Alibis can be broken.’ The telephone on the desk began to ring and after a brief conversation Heffernan looked at Wesley.
‘That was the Nutter. I’ve been summoned to tea and biscuits in his office. He wants to talk about the implications of Chris
Hobson’s appeal and damage limitation, whatever that is. He also said he wants Shipborne’s murder
cleared up as soon as possible so we don’t look as if we couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery … my words not his, but
that’s the gist of it.’

Wesley smiled, certain that Chief Superintendent Nutter’s original words had owed more to corporate-speak than to Heffernan’s
colourful vernacular.

He left Heffernan to prepare for his ‘damage limitation’ meeting and returned to the main office, which was buzzing with industry.
Steve Carstairs was on the telephone, frowning with concentration as he wrote on his notepad.

Wesley sat down, wondering where to begin, when he was relieved of his dilemma by his telephone. He picked up the receiver
and was surprised to hear Neil’s voice on the other end of the line.

‘Meet me at Belsham church in half an hour. I’ve got something you might be interested in.’

‘I’m busy at the moment. Can’t it wait?’

But the line had gone dead.

The door of Belsham church was slightly ajar. Wesley pushed it and stepped inside the building, standing still for a moment
as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

The place seemed to be empty, but his nose detected a pleasant smell of lavender polish, and there were fresh flowers, white
lilies mainly, on the altar and beside the pulpit. He began to wander towards the east end and noticed that someone had been
polishing the memorial brasses set into the chancel floor.

He walked slowly up to the altar, then turned round. If Neil wasn’t there he might as well go: he was hardly short of things
to see to back in the office. But then he noticed that the door to the tower was ajar and he could just make out a pale, flickering
glow around its edge. He walked back down the aisle, the route trodden by so many Belsham brides over the centuries, and came
to a halt at the tower-room door.

When he pushed the door it swung open. Flickering
candles bathed the tower room in soft golden light, bringing the faded painting on the wall into dappled animation and making
the recumbent alabaster figures on the Munnery tombs look as if they were sleeping in firelight. The bell ropes cast shadows
like blackened nooses on the stone walls, giving the place the look of some Gothic torture chamber. Neil was sitting at the
end of the room on a large wooden chair in the style of a medieval throne, lit by a forest of candles on the floor. A smile
was playing on his lips. He was enjoying the effect he was creating.

Wesley stepped over the threshold. The air was warm from the candle flames, and the smell of hot wax mingled with the mustiness
of centuries. ‘What’s all this about?’ He didn’t have time for playing games.

‘I found the candles in a box. I thought it’d create the right atmosphere.’

‘For what?’ Wesley glanced at his watch.

‘For the story of Robert de Munerie, follower of Satan and all-round bad guy. Take a pew.’

Wesley looked around. Behind him was an old bench, grey with the dust and bird droppings of years. He sat down gingerly on
the edge. ‘I haven’t got time for this, you know.’

‘It won’t take long. Sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’ Neil paused dramatically as Wesley watched the words of the deeply
carved graffiti above the tombs dance in the flames. ‘The dregs of the people beg for mercy, o Lord.’ He shuddered at the
words as Neil began his story.

‘There was a young guy in Belsham called Robert de Munerie … playboy younger son of the local lord of the manor and not short
of a groat or two.’

Wesley smiled. Neil’s style of storytelling had rather spoiled the effect of the surroundings.

‘Anyway,’ Neil continued. ‘This Robert fancies himself as a bit of a magician. He reckons he’s in league with the Devil and
has special powers. And if he was bad before he went to Tradmouth on his dad’s business, when he found that everyone there
was dropping dead of the plague while
he was immune he became even worse. He thought he was invincible … had Satan’s special protection. In reality he probably had
some natural immunity, but he began to imagine that he was capable of anything. Anyway, he picks up this tart in Tradmouth
who was showing symptoms of the plague and brings her back here to Belsham to infect his family so that he’d inherit the lands.’

Wesley took a deep breath. The air was thinning as the candle flames devoured the oxygen in the atmosphere. He was reluctant
to admit it but Neil’s story had aroused his interest.

Neil carried on. ‘But things didn’t go to plan. His mum died of the plague but his dad only got it mildly and recovered, as
did his elder brother. The immunity was probably genetic but I don’t really know much about these things. Anyway, Robert didn’t
hit the jackpot and inherit but the plague spread through Belsham like wildfire and almost three-quarters of the population
were wiped out. There were too many bodies for the churchyard to take so they had to bury most of the victims in the church
field near by … which became known as Pestilence Field, or Pest Field.’

‘So what happened to Robert?’

‘Nobody knew. He just disappeared one night. There were all sorts of rumours, of course, the favourite being that the Devil
had dragged him down to hell. He’d just vanished off the face of the earth. Then I found out about Barnaby Poulson’s PhD thesis
and I went to Morbay to have a look at it.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘Remember that skeleton we found buried on top
of the others with his head bashed in? The one that was found with the dagger bearing the de Munerie coat of arms?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s Robert. That’s what happened to him. How’s that for poetic justice, eh? He ends up with the poor sods he infected
with the Black Death. So come on, Detective Inspector … who did it? Who killed Robert de Munerie?’

‘This is all very interesting, Neil, but it sounds to me as if Robert de Munerie deserved everything that was coming
to him. And I haven’t time to give my professional opinion on a murder that happened nearly six hundred years ago. I’ve got
a mountain of cases on my desk at the moment and the culprits are all alive, kicking and likely to do it again if they’re
not caught and put away.’ He stood up and brushed himself off. ‘And make sure you put out all these candles before you go.
We don’t want the place to catch fire.’ He started to make for the door

‘I haven’t finished – don’t you want to know who it was?’

‘Tell me tonight. I take it you’re still staying at ours.’

‘If I’m welcome,’ was the pointed answer.

Wesley walked out, saying nothing. After the week he’d had, he really didn’t have time to indulge Neil’s whims. As he walked
out to the car, he rang Pam on his mobile to check that everything was all right at home. She sounded quite cheerful and informed
him proudly that Michael was doing well. There had been a miraculous change in him and he was almost his old self. Like animals,
young children never malinger: it’s only when they’re older that they learn to play for sympathy.

He had just opened his car door when he spotted a figure hurrying up the church path. He slammed the door shut again and began
to follow, breaking into a run. Now was as good a time as any.

‘Mrs O’Donovan. Can I have a quick word?’

But the woman quickened her pace as she made for the church door.

Wesley shouted his question again but she had changed direction suddenly and disappeared rapidly round the side of the church.
He followed at a trot but when he reached the back of the church she wasn’t there. All he could see was a forest of old gravestones
peeping out from the overgrown grass. It was as if she’d disappeared into thin air … a vanishing trick.

Talking to Dermot O’Donovan had suddenly leapt to the top of his list of things to do.

My last diary is full so I must begin this new one. Somehow writing down my thoughts helps. Barnaby called today to give me
a copy of his finished thesis. He was so pathetically grateful for my help and he seems quite unaware of what he has done
to me. His discoveries have been like a scalpel delving into a wound that I once thought was healed. How I see myself in that
man Robert de Munerie, bringing plague and death to the innocent
.

Barnaby thinks the dead are buried in Pest Field. Perhaps there should be some memorial there … something to say that this
is the result when man’s arrogance tempts him to emulate the Almighty
.

From the diary sent to DI Wesley Peterson by Dr Anne Talbot

‘Perhaps she was just in a hurry … or wasn’t in the mood to talk to you. Perhaps you’re reading too much into it.’

Wesley shook his head. ‘No. She was definitely frightened of something. She took one look at me and ran … or at least that’s
how it seemed.’ He smiled. ‘I suppose I could have been imagining it. But I still think it’s a priority to have a word with
Dermot O’Donovan. He might know more about Helen Wilmer’s death than he says … and
maybe even about Shipborne’s. I still reckon the two are linked.’

‘So you don’t believe Verlan’s confession?’

‘In a word, Gerry, no.’

‘He could be playing it clever … trying to pull the wool over our eyes. He was Amy Hunting’s lover and she went along to see
Shipborne to confess that they’d been playing hide-the-sausage with each other.’ Heffernan wrinkled his nose. ‘Do people still
go to the vicar to confess to adultery? It seems odd … especially if she wasn’t a churchgoer.’

‘In his diary Shipborne said that he confessed something in a sermon. Wonder what it was.’

‘Can’t have been anything that bad or it would have made the tabloids. It was probably something like forgetting to pay his
bus fare.’

‘We can always see if Verlan knows. He’s still in the cells.’

Heffernan pulled a face. ‘I’ve got enough on my plate with the Hobson appeal. Would you believe that the Nutter wants to drag
me along to a press conference? You were first choice, of course, as you know … but I made your excuses.’ He grinned wickedly.
‘See how I look after you.’

Before Wesley could answer, there was a knock on the door. Through the glass they could see Steve Carstairs with a piece of
paper in his hand. Heffernan shouted a booming ‘Come in’ and the door was opened.

Steve stood on the threshold, as if he wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing. Then he spoke, addressing Heffernan.

‘The only trial I’ve found that the Reverend Shipborne took part in was Dermot O’Donovan’s, sir. He was done for breaking
and entering and Shipborne spoke up for him … said he’d benefit from community service and spending some time at Damascus Farm.
Dermot was eighteen at the time and it looks like the vicar’s contribution stopped him going inside.’

‘I reckon this Dermot character could be in this up to his neck,’ was Heffernan’s verdict.

Steve shuffled his feet awkwardly and looked downwards.

‘Have you got anything on Shipborne’s background? What he did before he became a vicar?’

Steve looked up. ‘Yeah. I tracked down the niece who was mentioned in his will … a Dr Anne Talbot. It was easy’cause she hadn’t
changed her address.’

‘And?’

‘She said he was some sort of top scientist. They were all surprised when he announced he was going to chuck it all in and
become a vicar. He had a great job, she said … really well paid.’

‘Maybe he thought there was more to life than money,’ said Wesley quietly. ‘Was he ever married?’

‘Dr Talbot, the niece, said he was a widower. His wife had died quite young, she said. Cancer. There was one kid but it had
died as a baby.’

‘Did she say what kind of scientist he was? Who he worked for?’

‘He worked for the government … the Ministry of Defence, she said.’

Wesley’s heart sank. If this whole thing was something to do with state secrets and highly confidential MoD work, it was way
out of his league. James Bond territory. Former top government scientists being murdered and the event arranged to look like
a robbery was just the sort of thing the secret services got up to … or so he’d heard. He’d had very little to do with Special
Branch in the course of his police career and even less to do with MI5 and MI6 – and that suited him fine.

‘Look, Steve, can you call Dr Talbot again and ask her if there was any sort of diary amongst her uncle’s personal effects.
There was a full one kept here … probably because it was bloodstained … but it’s possible he might have started writing another.
If she has it, ask her to send it to me by registered post, will you?’

Steve looked mildly annoyed by this addition to his workload but he hurried out.

Heffernan sighed and began to doodle on something that looked like a budget report. ‘Right, Wes, what have we got?’

‘Philip Norbert had Shipborne’s wallet and he admits that he was in the vicarage that night.’

‘Pretty damning.’

‘Perhaps … but I’m not leaping to conclusions just yet. There are other possibilities. What if Shipborne’s death was connected
with what he did for the Ministry of Defence … or what he knew? But I’m probably letting my imagination run away with me.’

‘And we need to talk to Dermot O’Donovan, Helen Wilmer’s boyfriend. As we now know, Shipborne spoke up for him in court on
one occasion … got him sent to Damascus Farm.’

Wesley stood up. ‘Last time we asked Castello about his own relationship with Shipborne. This time I’d like to ask him about
Dermot O’Donovan and Shipborne. Did Dermot have some unfinished business with him? Maybe something that made Dermot lose his
temper and kill him.’

‘Or alternatively Shipborne’s death may have been just what it seemed at the time – murder in the course of a robbery. If
Philip Norbert’s brief advises him to say it was an accident, he could get away with manslaughter.’

Wesley nodded. He knew this only too well. Getting away with murder was a common phenomenon: there were times, as he lay awake
in the small hours of the morning, when he wondered why he went to all the trouble of catching criminals at all.

‘So you’re off to Damascus Farm again?’ Heffernan looked at his watch. ‘It’ll have to be tomorrow. I’ve got to go and see
the Nutter first thing in the morning so why don’t you take Rachel? She looks as if she could do with a trip out. She’s been
quiet recently. Know what’s wrong with her?’

Wesley shook his head and left the office.

*

If an artist had been painting the Dartmoor landscape the next morning, he or she would have made good use of the colour grey:
mid-grey for the vast sky; green-grey for the sodden earth; a dark brownish grey for the trees and bushes; and a cold, darker
shade for the scattered rocks, walls and farm buildings. A fine drizzle fell from the sky and drifted like mist in the biting
breeze. Today there was no sunshine to make the raindrops sparkle like jewels on the wild land. Untamed and lovely as this
place was in summer, Wesley found himself wondering how people survived up here in the winter.

He caught a whiff of Rachel’s perfume as they drove. It was musky, sensual, quite unlike the light floral scent Pam wore when
she had the time to be bothered. He looked out of the window and concentrated on the scenery.

Barry Castello must have heard their car engine because he was waiting at the farmhouse door to greet them, the smile fixed
on his face. He shook hands courteously when Wesley introduced Rachel and led them inside. On their way in, they passed three
youths who greeted Castello with a friendly nod. They didn’t seem to be in awe of him; this was no prison regime.

‘I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon, Inspector,’ Castello said as they sat down. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Last time I talked to you, you said you thought the Reverend Shipborne had been a scientist. Did you know he used to work
for the Ministry of Defence?’

Castello shook his head. ‘He never went into detail about what he did. I presume he thought that what he did before he gave
his life to God wasn’t particularly important.’

Wesley sat for a few moments, considering his next question. He had hoped that Castello would know more. He glanced up at
the huge stone mantelpiece. There was a photograph there, a group of people in evening dress – men in tuxedos and women in
shining cocktail frocks. He hadn’t noticed it before but now he stared at the faces, focusing on each fixed smile. A younger
Barry Castello was in the
middle, a champagne glass raised to the camera in an eternal toast. Aaron Hunting, looking sleek and prosperous, stood at
his right hand. And he’d seen the woman standing to Castello’s left before … but that time she’d been dead.

‘Isn’t that Amy Hunting?’

Castello suddenly looked solemn. ‘I heard about her death on the local news … dreadful.’

‘Did you know her well?’

‘She came to a couple of fund-raising dinners many years ago. Her husband had given us some generous donations.’

‘You still haven’t said how well you knew her.’

‘No, I haven’t, have I.’ Castello looked Wesley in the eye. The subject was closed … for the time being.

Wesley studied the photograph again and spotted another familiar face just behind the main party. A much younger Keith Sturgeon,
wearing uniform tuxedo, held his glass uncomfortably, as though he wished he were elsewhere. ‘Who’s that?’ Wesley asked.

Castello made a show of peering at the image. ‘I don’t know. Someone from Huntings, I think. Why? Does it matter?’

Wesley tried another approach. ‘Look, Mr Castello, you knew John Shipborne better than most people, is that true?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Is it possible he might have been killed because of something in his past?’

Castello sat back and put the tips of his fingers together to form an arch. He stared at them for a while, as though making
some sort of decision. After a while he spoke. ‘To be perfectly honest, Inspector, the idea of John having had enemies seems
ridiculous. If you’d known him you would have realised what a gentle, generous man he was.’

‘According to his diary he fell out with his bell-ringers when he had the church tower locked up.’

Castello shrugged. ‘He told me the tower was unsafe. It was probably a misunderstanding. John would never have willingly fallen
out with anyone.’

‘Perhaps he hadn’t always been like that,’ said Rachel. ‘People can change. You did.’

He gave her a beaming smile. ‘You’re quite right, Detective Sergeant. People do change, and of course John did say …’ He stopped
himself suddenly.

‘Said what, Mr Castello?’

A silence.

‘Please. It might be important. Nothing you say can harm him now, and it might help us catch whoever killed him.’

Castello leaned forward. ‘Okay. John told me once that he’d done something he was deeply ashamed of: he said it had caused
a great deal of harm. He never told me what it was but it certainly seemed to be on his conscience.’

‘Could this have been when he was working for the Ministry of Defence?’

‘Possibly. Although he never said it was connected with his work. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more. But I suspect that this
thing, whatever it was, was what attracted him to the church … seeking forgiveness, I suppose. I of all people can understand
that.’

‘Did he ever mention a trial?’

‘Whose trial?’

‘I don’t know.’

Castello thought for a moment. ‘I remember he did speak up for one of our boys when he went to court.’

‘Dermot O’Donovan?’

Castello looked up at Wesley, surprised. ‘Yes, that’s right. He was one of John’s parishioners. His mother used to clean at
the vicarage. Dermot was a sly boy, if I remember rightly – bit of a charmer. I always had the feeling that he was just going
through the motions, saying what he thought I wanted to hear. To be frank, I didn’t expect him to be one of my success stories.’

Wesley and Rachel looked at each other.

‘Do you think he’d be capable of murder?’ Wesley asked, expecting the answer to be no.

‘Who knows? As I said, he was a sly boy, the type who would always make sure he had an alibi. I expected him to reoffend but
John used to say we had to show him trust. I know he used to wander in and out of the vicarage … “borrowed” his mother’s keys.
But as far as I know he never got into trouble again so John might have been right … or at least he never got caught.’

Wesley was surprised at Castello’s cynicism about those in his charge, worthy of any police officer. The man’s realistic take
on human nature raised him a few notches in his estimation.

Castello’s face clouded. ‘You don’t think he could have killed John, do you? Because if he did I’d never forgive myself for
not keeping a closer eye on the situation.’

‘Was there any antagonism between O’Donovan and Mr Shipborne?’

‘I didn’t see anything like that myself but … I don’t know. It’s possible, I suppose.’ He looked from Wesley to Rachel. ‘Do
you think I’ve screwed up? Do you think it could be my fault?’

‘Don’t worry about it, Mr Castello,’ said Rachel, knowing that her reassurances would be useless if Dermot O’Donovan turned
out to be John Shipborne’s killer.

They grabbed a quick sandwich at a roadside pub but there wasn’t time to linger over lunch. They had to talk to Dermot O’Donovan.
It was beginning to rain heavily as they drove back over the moor towards the Plymouth road, and the landscape looked grim
through grey mist and wind-screen wipers. Just outside Buckfastleigh Wesley fumbled in his pocket for his mobile phone and
rang Gerry Heffernan to tell him their plans while Rachel drove on, her eyes on the slippery, glistening road. The chief inspector
sounded weary on the other end of the line and said he wished he were coming with them. It seemed that he had been on the
receiving end of a load of crap from Nutter about public relations and the reputation of the force, and
from the tone of his voice he sounded well and truly fed up.