The Plague Maiden (32 page)

It was Heffernan who spoke first. ‘I didn’t expect you to be back at work so soon after …’

‘It’s better than sitting at home brooding on what might have been, Chief Inspector. I’ve always found work helps at times
like this.’

‘Quite right, sir. I understand that you’ve had your share of tragedy. I don’t know whether your housekeeper told you that
we’d visited your house.’

‘She said something about Loveday telling you to look round.’ He gave a weary smile. ‘I presume you didn’t have a search warrant …
but I’ll let it pass this time.’

‘We saw your late son’s room.’ Wesley waited for a reaction but Hunting merely lowered his eyes.

‘Yes. Corazón told me you’d been in there. Perhaps you’ll understand now that Amy was ill … obsessed with Adam. And Loveday’s
instability didn’t help the situation. She was a difficult child.’ He hesitated. ‘Difficult to love. I suppose I’m partly
to blame for what happened.’

‘You can’t blame yourself, sir,’ Wesley said quickly. ‘What
exactly did your son die of, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘A lung infection, Inspector … complications after an operation. Amy never got over it. At first she sank into terrible depressions
when she wouldn’t even get out of bed, then she went wild … drank a lot … had affairs. She had Adam’s room sealed off as a shrine
and she spent hours in there alone. I don’t suppose I helped very much … I just buried myself in work as I always have. Perhaps
I should have paid Amy more attention but … it’s not something I’m very good at. I thought of divorce, of course … but then
I kept telling myself that it wasn’t her fault.’

‘No,’ Wesley heard himself saying. Aaron Hunting may have loved Amy in his own way … he just hadn’t known how to handle her
grief. Wesley felt that there was something profoundly sad, even ironic, about a man with all that material wealth having
to endure such a wretched private life. Perhaps it would teach him that the rich don’t always have things their own way.

‘Can I see Loveday?’ Hunting asked suddenly.

‘Of course. I’ll arrange it for you.’

Heffernan cleared his throat. It was time to go.

‘If there’s anything else you want, Mr Hunting …’

‘Thank you, Inspector. You’ve been very understanding.’

‘I don’t half feel sorry for that poor bugger, Wes,’ Heffernan said as they reached the carpark.

Wesley smiled and said nothing.

It was late when they returned to the office. There had been a queue for the car ferry back from the Morbay side of the river:
it was the time when most people were returning home from work … people who didn’t have murderers to apprehend.

Rachel was at her desk, looking as though she was in no hurry to get home. She stood up when Wesley and Heffernan entered
the office but Trish beat her to it. She hurried up to the newcomers as if she’d been on the edge of her seat, waiting for
them to arrive.

‘I’ve got the full details of Adam Hunting’s inquest here, sir. Apparently he’d been born with a heart defect and he’d just
had an operation to correct it. A few days after he came out of hospital he picked up an E. coli infection which affected
his lungs. The poor little lad was too weak to fight it and he died. It was natural causes all right.’

‘Thanks, Trish,’ said Wesley, dismissing the possibility that the unfortunate child’s death could have anything to do with
later events. It was a tragedy for his family … but not one that could be blamed on anybody else.

As Trish hurried away, Rachel saw her opportunity. She slipped into Heffernan’s office before the two men had a chance to
sit down.

‘I’ve been looking at the Shipborne case again, sir,’ she said to Heffernan, her eyes bright with the excitement of the chase.
‘Dermot O’Donovan said he was at home with his mother on the night Shipborne was murdered …’

Wesley nodded. ‘That’s what he said. He went to the pub early and got back just as his mother arrived home from the vicarage:
that would be around ten past seven. Then he stayed home for the rest of the evening.’

‘Well, he wasn’t asked to make a statement at the time but his mother, Shipborne’s housekeeper, told the police she went round
to a friend’s on the other side of the village at seven thirty … called into the vicarage on the way back and found Shipborne
dead around ten. Dermot was alone. He hasn’t got an alibi.’

Wesley looked sceptical. ‘It was a long time ago. Perhaps he’s forgotten.’

‘Didn’t you say that you never forget where you were when something dramatic happens, Wes? The President Kennedy syndrome?
If his mum’s employer had been murdered, surely he’d remember exactly what happened that evening.’

Wesley sighed. Heffernan was probably right. It would all make sense. And what if the story about the blackmail letter was
a lie to put them on the wrong track? If Philip Norbert had been telling the truth about finding the body,
then Dermot O’Donovan might have committed the murder earlier that evening. Wesley looked at his watch. It was getting late.

‘We’ll pick him up tomorrow, Wes,’ Heffernan announced, beaming benevolently. ‘Give him another night in the bosom of his
loving family. Time’s marching on and I’ve got choir practice tonight, so why don’t we call it a day?’

Wesley reached for his coat. Then he stopped suddenly and swung round. ‘You’ve just reminded me. We’ve not checked out the
sermon yet … Shipborne’s confession. Verlan said he went to Belsham church sometimes. He might have been there.’

But Heffernan already had his coat on and was heading for the door. ‘You ask him, Wes. I’m off home.’

Ten minutes later the custody sergeant was unlocking the door of Verlan’s cell down in the bowels of the station. When the
heavy door swung open Verlan was revealed, sitting on the blue plastic mattress, hugging his knees, hunched up in the fetal
position, his back against the starkly painted brick wall. He looked up hopefully, as though he was glad to have some company …
any company.

‘Dr Verlan, do you mind if I ask you a question … just informally … nothing to do with the offences you’re charged with?’

Verlan straightened his body and looked at Wesley eagerly. ‘Sure, go ahead.’

‘According to the Reverend Shipborne’s diary he confessed to something in a sermon but he doesn’t say what that something
was. I know you sometimes went to St Alphage’s so I wondered if you were there … if you remembered what it was he said. I know
it’s a long time ago but …’

But Verlan was now sitting bolt upright. ‘Sure I was there. How could I forget a thing like that?’

‘So what did he confess to? What had he done?’ Wesley leaned forward, awaiting the answer.

The priest of Belsham, a certain Hammo, had, against the rulings of the Church, taken a woman to his bed. She was a young
widow by the name of Hawise and she did bear him two children and he made no secret of his dealings with them. Now when Robert
de Munerie brought the whore who carried the pestilence to the village, the woman Hawise and her children fell sick and died.
Hammo lived on but he was distraught for it seemed he bore this woman and her children much love. Hammo knew what manner of
man this Robert was and what he had done as he had boasted of the matter before him. Some said that the priest, Hammo, was
sick with grief at his loss and did slay the said Robert and did bury him with those dead of the pestilence he brought. But
all we can know for certain is that Robert de Munerie was never seen again and there are those who said that Satan came for
him and dragged him to hell and others that he went over the sea to France
.

After tending the sick of his flock and carving words upon the wall of his church that bore witness to his despair, this sorry
priest, showing symptoms of the pestilence, sinned by taking his own life, God rest his soul
.

This tale was told me by a brother of this house who
was a child at the time of the great mortality and who, by God’s will, survived, and it teaches us that it is ill to fight
wickedness with wickedness and we must trust to the vengeance of the Almighty
.

Extract from the second sermon of Richard Thorsleigh, Abbot of Morre Abbey in the county of Devon, quoted in Barnaby Poulson’s
thesis

‘I presumed you knew already,’ said Verlan. ‘John Shipborne stood up there and said that he’d killed at least four people
… and that he was responsible for numerous babies having been born dead or severely disabled.’

Wesley looked at him, puzzled.

‘He’d been the chief scientist in charge of germ warfare experiments at a secret government research establishment. He’d come
up with the bright idea of spraying certain areas of South Devon with live bacteria to find out how they would spread and
survive … and to test their effect on animals and humans.’

Wesley was annoyed with himself for not thinking of this before. Germ warfare trials … the trial mentioned in Shipborne’s
diary had had nothing to do with the criminal justice system.

Verlan continued. ‘He’d told the powers that be that the bacteria were quite harmless, of course … that they were ones found
normally in the environment. Only he used large quantities, and when public health reports started to come in some time later,
the authorities started to suspect that they weren’t quite as harmless as he had claimed.’

Wesley sat down on the blue plastic mattress beside Verlan. ‘Go on.’

‘Anyway, a couple of years later, when the various reports were collated, it was found that farmers in the area had reported
cattle dying of a virulent strain of E.coli at around the time of the trials. And there were the clusters of serious birth
defects … and several deaths, mainly elderly
people or the young with weakened immune systems. It was all hushed up, of course.’

‘Until Shipborne made his confession from the pulpit.’

‘Yes. He confessed that it had been his pet project. He’d been playing God with people’s lives and he wanted to take full
responsibility … although I expect he was just one of a team. That’s what had made him join the Church, he said – when he
found out what he’d been a party to he felt he had to change his life and try to make amends. That’s what I told Amy … Shipborne
wasn’t a bad man … he’d just made a mistake – got carried away, like we all do at times.’

‘You told Amy Hunting?’

‘Yes. I didn’t tell you the truth, I’m afraid. She had told me about her little boy, Adam, and I began to wonder if Shipborne’s
experiments might have caused his last illness … the timing was right. She said she wanted to see Shipborne face to face so
she came up with the idea of going to the vicarage to talk to him. I was worried about what she’d do … but at that stage she
seemed to be very calm, almost as though she was starting to accept it.’

‘Do you know if she told her husband what she’d discovered?’

‘I don’t know. They led separate lives. In fact she once told me that Aaron Hunting wasn’t Adam’s father.’

This was news to Wesley.

‘She told me she’d been having an affair with Adam’s father and she’d got pregnant.’

‘Did Hunting know about this?’

‘I’ve no idea. Possibly not. I had the impression that she kept that particular affair very discreet.’

‘Did the real father know Adam was his?’

‘Yes. She said that he hadn’t any other children of his own and he’d been devastated by Adam’s death.’

Wesley thought, not for the first time, that Aaron Hunting seemed to have got a raw deal out of his marriage. ‘And did Amy say who Adam’s father was?’

‘Not to me.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us all this earlier?’

Verlan said nothing.

‘Do you think Amy Hunting could have killed the Reverend Shipborne?’

William Verlan looked him in the eye for the first time during their interview. ‘Yes, I think she might have done. I should
never have told her about his involvement in the trials. She was obsessed by Adam’s death, and as soon as I heard about the
murder on the radio news I prayed that Amy wasn’t responsible … that she hadn’t let things go that far. To tell you the truth
I was relieved when they said it was a robbery and they arrested someone for it. But now they’re saying that man’s innocent
and … Perhaps that’s why she killed herself: with all the publicity about that man’s appeal she might have been afraid that
the truth would come out.’

Wesley left Verlan in his cell and wandered back up to the CID office.

Paul and Trish had been sent to Neston to ask Edward Baring about his dealings with Helen Wilmer. An hour later they reported
back that he denied ever having had more to do with Helen than the occasional exchange of light banter and complained about
police harassment. He had seemed horrified at the suggestion that he might know something about her death and had protested
his innocence so loudly that he had set his dog barking and his neighbours banging on the walls.

Paul came away from the small terraced house convinced that Baring had been telling the truth. Trish, however, thought he
had protested too much. Wesley steered the middle course and concluded that he was worth keeping an eye on … just in case.

Rachel was still at her desk when Wesley set off for home. He said nothing to her about Verlan’s revelations: he needed time
to think, to go over the implications in his mind.

It was raining when he left the police station and there was a chill in the air. He pulled his coat closely around him and
shivered. It was dark and the shining pavements reflected the headlights of the homeward-bound traffic and the lights from
shop windows. It was that sad time of year; too late for summer and too early for Christmas. He pulled his collar up and set
off down the high street, dodging the crawling cars on the way to Baynard’s Quay, hoping Gerry wouldn’t have set off for choir
practice just yet.

He hurried past cafés and restaurants, half empty now the tourist season was over, and ignored the tempting aroma drifting
out from the fish-and-chip shop. Soon the narrow street opened out onto a cobbled quayside with a pub at one end and a small
defensive castle at the other. The water lapped to his left and boats bobbed energetically at anchor. It was high tide and
slivers of reflected light flashed on the choppy water.

Heffernan lived in a small whitewashed cottage tucked away at the end of a row of grander houses, the former dwellings of
customs officials and retired sea captains. Wesley hurried to his front door and knocked. When Heffernan answered Wesley noticed
that he had exchanged his shirt and tie for a roll-neck sweater in a dubious shade of beige: Gerry had never been a contender
for the ‘world’s best dressed’ list.

‘I would have thought you’d have been home seeing how your little lad is,’ he said as he stood aside to let his colleague
in.

Wesley experienced a sudden pang of guilt. ‘I’m not staying long. I just thought I’d tell you I’ve been having a word with
William Verlan.’

Heffernan slumped down on the sofa, picked up a half-empty plate of fish and chips from the coffee table and put it on his
knee. He was in the middle of his meal. ‘And?’ he said, waving a chip in Wesley’s direction.

Wesley shook his head, resisting the temptation. ‘He told me that Shipborne’s job at the MoD was conducting germ
warfare trials. Apparently a cloud of bacteria was sprayed over this area of South Devon around the time Adam Hunting died.
Later on it was found that it had caused problems … birth defects, death in people with weakened immune systems, cattle deaths.
It was all covered up, of course.’

‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ said Heffernan with his mouth full.

‘Shipborne felt bad about the effects of the experiment he’d masterminded and that’s why he quit and joined the Church. Anyway,
one Sunday he decided to make a full confession in a sermon and Verlan was in church when he made it. He put two and two together
and realised that Adam Hunting could have been one of Shipborne’s victims so he went and told Amy Hunting. She went to see
Shipborne on some cock-and-bull pretext and Verlan reckons she might have killed him. You saw that room. You saw how the boy’s
death had affected her. She was mad with grief … obsessed … so when someone came along and more or less confessed that they
were responsible for her son’s death …’

‘Well, we can hardly arrest her now, can we?’

‘And there’s another thing … Verlan says Aaron Hunting wasn’t Adam’s real father.’

Heffernan nearly choked on a chip. ‘What makes him think that?’

‘Amy told him.’

‘So who was the father?’

Wesley answered with a shrug. ‘Just thought I’d keep you posted.’

‘I presume Hunting knows the lad wasn’t his.’

‘Verlan didn’t know. He said Amy was neglected by her husband and she embarked on a discreet affair with someone … unlike the
affairs she had after Adam’s death, which apparently weren’t very discreet.’

‘Think it’s relevant?’

‘Perhaps.’

Heffernan waved the plate in front of Wesley and this time he succumbed and helped himself to a chip. It was cold but he ate
it anyway.

‘I’d better be off.’

‘And I’d better get organised or I’ll be late for choir practice again.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Give my love to Pam, eh?’

Wesley left him alone with his washing up and set off up the damp, cold streets, climbing towards home. When he turned round
he had a spectacular view of the lights of Tradmouth below him but there was no time to linger, and besides it was too cold
to stand and stare. He quickened his pace and soon reached home.

Neil was the first to greet him when he stepped through the front door.

‘You ready to hear the rest of that story now?’

It took Wesley a few seconds to remember what he was talking about. ‘Tell me over supper, eh? Where’s Pam?’ He could hear
no sound from within the house.

‘She’s upstairs catching up on her sleep. I told her to have a rest.’

‘And Michael?’ He felt a sudden pang of guilt that he hadn’t rushed straight up to see how his son was doing.

‘He’s fine. Don’t worry.’

‘I’d better just …’ He began to make for the stairs.

‘He’s asleep. Pam’d go mad if you went and woke him up.’

Wesley hovered in the hallway. Neil was probably right. He shouldn’t be trying to make up for his long absences by waking
up a sleeping child. But he felt a wave of resentment that Neil of all people should be more in tune with his own son’s requirements
than he was.

‘Your supper’s in the microwave, by the way,’ Neil informed him, sounding smug.

‘So what’s new?’ Wesley muttered under his breath, making for the kitchen. He found the room in a terrible state with unwashed
dishes piled by the sink and smears of
butter and jam around the handles of the cupboards. In Wesley’s experience Neil always left signs of his habitation for all
to see, like a wild animal leaving the debris of its kill in a cave.

When he was seated in front of a plate of reheated pasta Bolognaise Neil came in and sat down opposite him. ‘Now how far had
I got?’

Wesley looked up at him, his loaded fork in midair on the way to his mouth. ‘As far as I can recall you were asking me to
reopen a six-hundred-year-old murder case.’

Neil’s face reddened. ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that. I’d only asked you to guess who killed Robert de Munerie.’

‘Neil, I do enough of that sort of thing at work. Why don’t you just tell me?’

Neil looked disappointed. ‘Okay, then. I’d told you Robert de Munerie brought the Black Death to Belsham, didn’t I?’

Wesley nodded, his mouth full of pasta.

‘Well, it turned out that the priest, Hammo, had a girlfriend, and she had a couple of kids. Hammo didn’t die of the Black
Death but the girlfriend and kids did. Anyway, Robert went round boasting about how he brought the plague to the village and
how his special powers made him immune. Then he mysteriously disappeared and there were various theories about what had happened
to him. Some people thought he’d gone abroad and some even said that the Devil had dragged him to hell, but now I’ve got proof
that Hammo wiped the smirk off his face by killing him and dumping him in the plague pit with all his victims: natural justice,
I suppose you could call it.’

‘So what became of Hammo?’ Wesley said as he chased an elusive piece of pasta around the plate with his fork.

‘He felt so bad about what he’d done that he killed himself. Don’t know why … it sounded as if that Robert deserved all he
got.’

‘So how did the story come out?’

‘A kid who survived the Black Death in Belsham became a monk in Morre Abbey and told the abbot, who wrote it
down as a cautionary tale … Barnaby Poulson found the original document in Exeter Cathedral archives. I’m glad he went to
the trouble … it’s nice to know the story behind what you’re digging up.’ He hesitated. ‘I went over to Pest Field and did
a bit of digging after you’d gone.’