The Shining Skull (27 page)

‘There’s one thing I’ve got to ask,’ Wesley said, realising he couldn’t put the embarrassing question off for much longer.
‘Did you know that your father, er, was unfaithful to Marcus’s mother?’

Adrian’s mouth fell open and Carol, who was sitting, upright and tight lipped next to him on the sofa, let out a faint gasp.

‘I’m sorry if it’s come as a shock to you but . . . ’

‘No, no. I realise you have to ask awkward questions. The truth is, I did know.’

‘Did you? How?’ Carol squeaked. He had obviously not shared the information with her, much to her chagrin.

‘I found a letter amongst his papers when he died. Rather an, er, explicit letter.’

‘Do you remember the name of the woman who sent it?’

Adrian shook his head. ‘She just signed it something like “your own little S”. Whatever that meant.’

‘S? You’re sure about that?’Adrian nodded. ‘You wouldn’t still have the letter, would you?’

Adrian shook his head. ‘I burned it. I thought it was for the best. Why rake up something like that? What’s the point?’

‘And you know nothing about this woman?

Adrian glanced at his wife whose lips were still clamped firmly shut with disapproval, and shook his head. ‘Nothing at all.
But then if their affair was over before I was born, I wouldn’t, would I?’

‘No, I don’t suppose you would,’ said Wesley, glancing at his watch. He couldn’t see any point in prolonging the interview.
There was nothing much to learn and it was unlikely that Jacob Fallbrook’s sexual conquests had anything to do with the case
in hand. ‘Have you heard from Marcus? Has he said when he’ll be back?’

‘No,’ said Adrian, earning himself a hostile look from his wife. ‘His girlfriend’s not well and he has a lot to sort out.
He’s going to stay here when he gets back. Until he can sort himself out with a place of his own.’

‘We’ve been trying to get him on his mobile. Had to ask the police up there to get in touch with him and ask him to contact
us. We badly need to talk to him again.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Adrian said. ‘If he calls, I’ll get him to ring you.’ He stood up and walked over to the chest of drawers
in the corner of the room. He took some photographs out of the top drawer and returned to the sofa.

‘I took these the other day,’ he said, handing them to Wesley. ‘You can see how alike Marcus and I are, can’t you?’ he said
with a hint of pride. ‘I can’t tell you what it’s like, discovering that you’ve got a brother after all these years.’

Wesley handed the pictures back but before Adrian could put them away Heffernan spoke.

‘Mind if we keep one. We don’t have a recent picture of Marcus and . . . ’

‘Help yourself. I’ve got another set,’ said Adrian with a casual wave of the hand. Carol rolled her eyes. All this brotherly
devotion was getting her down.

Wesley smiled. ‘Thanks for your help. We’ll leave you to it,’ was the only thing he could think of to say.

* * *

In a grey Manchester suburb, a stone’s throw from the airport, the gateway to warmer and sunnier climes, a young uniformed
constable opened a rotting wooden gate and walked up a narrow garden path, thinking that a dose of weed killer sprinkled on
the grey crazy paving would do the trick. Not that the weeds growing in the cracks between the slabs was the only problem
with the front garden of the little brick council house. The grass was overgrown and a plastic garden chair – once dark green
but now faded to olive – stood against the front wall of the house balanced on three spindly legs.

PC Blunt adjusted his stab vest for comfort and raised his hand to knock on the door. Two wires sprouted from the wall like
weeds where the doorbell had once been but the constable wasn’t going to risk electrocution by touching them. As he waited
he consulted his notebook. He’d got the right address; the one Devon and Cornwall police wanted him to contact. Someone at
the station had said it was something to do with the death of Leah Wakefield. He’d quite fancied her at one time . . . before
she’d begun to look like trash.

He raised his hand and knocked again. Maybe there was nobody in. Maybe the man he wanted to see was at the shops or down the
pub. All he knew was that Mark Jones was a vital witness rather than a suspect. With the characters he usually had to deal
with, this reassurance came as a relief. He looked up at the house. A dump. Neglected. But some people didn’t mind living
like that. Each to his own.

He could hear footsteps now, shuffling towards the door. They sounded like the steps of an old man. But the constable knew
from experience that first impressions can deceive.

Someone was trying to open the door but was having difficulty because the wood was swollen with the Manchester rain. The constable
had the impression that the door wasn’t opened often. The person who lived here either had reclusive tendencies or used the
back door.

The door opened a few inches. ‘Afternoon, sir. My name’s PC Blunt.’ He displayed his identification as he’d been taught to
do. ‘I’m looking for a Mr . . . ’ He consulted his note book again. ‘A Mr Mark Jones. Is he in?’

The door opened a little wider. ‘I’m Mark Jones. What is it?’

‘Nothing to worry about, sir. We’ve been asked to contact you
by Devon police – Tradmouth Police Station. They’ve been trying to reach you but they can’t get through on your mobile.’

The door opened wider still. The man scratched his unbrushed mop of hair. He looked as if he’d just got out of bed. ‘Devon?’
he muttered, a look of complete puzzlement on his face.

The constable frowned and consulted his notebook for a third time.

Taken from the
Brighton Gazette,
15th April 1816

On the eleventh of this month fashionable society in Brighton was sorely disappointed by the failure of the boy known as the
Amazing Devon Marvel to perform any of the prodigious calculations for which he is noted. Each sum posed to the boy by the
audience was answered wrongly and he left the stage to boos and the throwing of missiles. The boy’s father stood before the
angry crowd and stated that his son was ill which calmed the mob a little but did not prevent them from demanding back the
money they had paid to enter the meeting hall.

Letter from Mrs Sarah Jewel of Brighton to Juanita Bentham, 28th April 1816

My Dearest Juanita,

I was most distressed to receive your letter. Sir John must be told of what you witnessed while visiting your tenants. You
say that you may be mistaken and you wish to confront this person but I beg you to take care. And you must remember that there
is someone in your household who could do you harm if they wished and you have your innocent babe, little Charles, to consider.

Please have a care and confide in Sir John. You fear that he may have to act because he is a Magistrate and you may be condemning
a blameless man to the gallows but I beg you to reconsider. You have a heart that is too tender. I beg you to be wise in this
matter for your safety and that of your son.

Your most loving and concerned friend, Sarah Jewel

* * *

When Neil had finished at the library he made the snap decision to return to Stoke Beeching and ask Lionel Grooby a few pertinent
questions. But first he called at the church. He needed to examine the registers. And he hoped that John Ventnor would be
understanding.

He needn’t have worried. Ventnor was in the vestry immersed in some paperwork and Neil’s request to see the church registers
didn’t seem to bother him in the least. The door to the huge oak cupboard stood open and Neil’s eyes were drawn to the old
box with the letters JS carved on the lid that sat on the bottom shelf.

As he bent down to examine it Ventnor looked up. ‘Nothing in there, I’m afraid. Just a few old hymn books and some sheet music.’

Neil opened the lid which was stiff with age. Ventnor had been right: there was nothing exciting in the box. However, as he
closed the lid he had the vague feeling that something was wrong. But he couldn’t think what that something was so he turned
his attention to the reason for his visit.

John Ventnor unlocked the safe, took out the burial register and placed it on the table, assuming that this was what the archaeologist
would want. But Neil walked over to the safe and took out another book instead.

Ventnor frowned. ‘You know that’s the baptism register, not the burial . . . ’

‘It’s baptisms I want.’

Ventnor said nothing and let Neil get on with whatever he felt he had to do. No doubt he’d find out what he was up to in due
course. He was a patient man.

Having found what he wanted, Neil said goodbye to the rector and made for Lionel Grooby’s bungalow, halting briefly to see
how the dig was going, After sorting out a couple of minor problems and examining the range of unexciting finds that had just
emerged from the trench, he continued his journey. He hadn’t warned Grooby of his arrival but then he always considered that
the element of surprise gave him the psychological advantage.

Sure enough, when the door was opened, Grooby looked surprised.

Neil came straight to the point. ‘I think I know who the body in Juanita Bentham’s coffin belongs to.’

Grooby looked round anxiously, as though he was afraid that
the neighbours might have overheard what Neil had said. ‘You’d better come in.’

Neil was vaguely amused by the worried expression on the man’s face. He was the self-appointed local historian, the guardian
of Stoke Beeching’s past. But even so, Neil found it hard to see how he could be taking it so personally . . . unless some
sort of professional pride was rearing its head. Maybe he was annoyed that he hadn’t got there first.

‘I’ve been looking at old newspapers. I hadn’t realised the
Tradmouth Echo
was that old.’

‘It was started in 1793,’ said Grooby as though the date was engraved in his head.

‘Just in time to report on Joan Shiner and her shenanigans.’ He grinned. ‘And the Amazing Devon Marvel of course.’

‘Yes.’ Grooby looked decidedly nervous and Neil wondered why.

‘I’ve also been looking at the church registers. The baptism register’s very interesting. I hadn’t realised Peter Hackworthy
was a twin. I presume he was identical.’

‘How should I know?’ Grooby sounded defensive. Definitely professional pride.

‘Just thought you might have come across it while you were researching your family tree. Peter Hackworthy and Paul Hackworthy.
Twins.’

‘Well?’ Grooby looked nervous, as though he longed for the interview to end.

‘I came across a report in the
Tradmouth Echo
.’ He took a notebook from his pocket and read. ‘Devon Marvel unwell. Miraculous powers fade.’ He looked up at Grooby. ‘Now
why should Peter Hackworthy suddenly lose his ability to do mental arithmetic? It’s not something that’d leave you suddenly,
is it? Not when you’re in the habit of doing it.’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps he was ill.’

‘I think it was because it wasn’t Peter who gave the abortive performance, it was Paul. For some reason Hackworthy made Peter’s
twin brother take his place. Peter was his milch cow, wasn’t he? What he earned from being hawked round all these inns and
assembly halls was making that family rich. But what if Peter couldn’t do it any more?’ He paused for effect. ‘What if Peter
was dead?’

He was surprised to see something akin to panic in Grooby’s eyes. ‘There’s absolutely no evidence . . . ’

Neil decided to make a wild guess. The worst thing that could happen is that he could make a fool of himself. ‘You know the
truth, don’t you?’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘You’re related to the Hackworthys. You’ve done the research.’

Lionel Grooby turned away. And suddenly Neil knew for certain he’d guessed right. ‘All this stuff about Joan Shiner has nothing
to do with it, does it? It’s something much closer to home. I’ve got a friend in Exeter who works in the archives. I can ask
her to look up the court records of the time.’ He said the last words almost as a threat.

Grooby shook his head. ‘You won’t find anything there.’ He stared down at his feet as if he found their appearance somehow
fascinating

‘I’ve read the letters you lent me – the Bentham correspondence.’

‘Have you finished with them? I’d like them back.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll let you have them soon. There were a couple of letters that intrigued me. There was one from a Mrs Jewell
of Brighton to her friend Juanita Bentham dated a couple of days before Juanita’s death, advising her to tell her husband
about something she witnessed while she was visiting her tenants. I found the letter to Juanita from Mrs Jewel but no copy
of the one Juanita sent to her which was strange because she was a very organised lady and kept copies of her correspondence
which people often did in those days.’

Grooby looked uneasy. ‘What’s the point of all this?’

Neil carried on. ‘Then there was another letter from Mrs Jewell to Sir John Bentham suggesting that Juanita was in danger.
Sir John replied that his wife died of a fever and he would be obliged if Mrs Jewel would refrain from making such outrageous
accusations. I wonder if these tenants Juanita visited were the Hackworthys and she discovered what really happened to Peter.’

Grooby looked down. ‘You can’t prove any of this.’

Neil looked Grooby in the eye. ‘I’ve just been wondering whether you came across the letter from Juanita to Mrs Jewel . .
. Whether it somehow got, er, mislaid. You’ve always made a thing of being descended from the family of the Amazing Devon
Marvel
but if it turns out that they were involved in something unsavoury like murder, it’s hardly something you’d want to make
a song and dance about, is it?’

Grooby pressed his lips together. ‘I think you’d better go, Dr Watson. And I’d be grateful if you’d return the Bentham correspondence
as soon as possible.’

Neil left Grooby’s bungalow with the uncomfortable feeling that he’d gone too far.

Wesley arrived home a little earlier than usual. He found Pam in the living room sitting on the sofa with Michael, both bent
over his new reading book. Amelia was playing contentedly with her duplo, constructing what looked like a house, a look of
earnest concentration on her face. There was no sign of his mother-in-law, Della, so it seemed they were in for a peaceful
evening. Wesley paused in the doorway for a moment, unwilling to disturb the scene of domestic bliss.

Pam looked up. ‘Hi. What do you fancy for supper?’

‘I’ll make it,’ he offered, taking off his jacket.

‘No, it’s OK. You hear Michael read.’

Wesley didn’t need to be asked twice. He sat down heavily on the sofa and put his arm around his son’s shoulders. ‘Where are
you up to, then?’ he asked.

Michael began to read immediately, a small finger underlining each word as he spoke it. He was good. No problem there, Wesley
thought with a swell of paternal pride.

Ten minutes later he called through to the kitchen. ‘He’s finished the book. He’s brilliant.’

‘He’s not supposed to finish it. He was only meant to do two more pages.’

Wesley grinned at Michael who grinned back as Pam hurried into the room. ‘Neil phoned. He wanted to talk to you about an exhumation
if that makes any sense.’

‘I’ll call him later. I take it you haven’t eaten yet?’

‘I was waiting for you,’ Pam said with a shy smile.

It was eight o’clock when he finally spoke to Neil. And what he said didn’t seem to make much sense.

Neil came straight to the point, asking him whether he remembered the extra skeleton that had been found in Juanita Bentham’s
coffin. Wesley remembered it all right; he had even been intrigued
by it temporarily before the abduction and murder of Leah Wakefield got in the way.

Then Neil proceeded to tell a strange tale of a child prodigy who had disappeared mysteriously and the prodigy’s twin who’d
attempted to take his place on the circuit of fame with embarrassing consequences. Then Juanita Bentham had died shortly after
alerting a friend to the fact that she was in danger. Neil had thought all along that it had had something to do with Joan
Shiner and her weird cult but now it seemed that there was no connection. That had been a separate thing altogether . . .
or at least that’s what he believed.

It was mostly guesswork, Neil explained. He had gathered up snippets of information and come to his own conclusions. Wesley
refrained from saying that he often worked in the same way . . . only he had to get his evidence to stand up in a court of
law against lawyers paid vast sums to prove he was a fool or a liar.

‘So what exactly are your conclusions?’ Wesley asked, a little impatient.

‘Not sure yet. But I think Juanita knew something about the swap and she was killed to keep her quiet.’

‘And the boy in the coffin with her?’

‘The real Peter? The Amazing Devon Marvel?’ Neil didn’t sound too sure of himself.

‘This is all very interesting, Neil, and I’d love to see your evidence but we’ve a lot on at the moment and I really can’t
. . . ’

Neil grunted at the other end of the line. ‘Suit yourself. I’ll be in Stoke Beeching till the weekend. We’ve almost finished
at the church now and they’re anxious to get the building started. Call me on my mobile if you’re free for a drink.’

When Wesley said that he couldn’t make any promises, Neil put the phone down without another word. Wesley felt strangely empty.
There had been several times since joining the police force when he had harboured a nagging suspicion that the job was too
much for him, and this was one of them.

But the fact that Pam had begun to treat him with sweet reason allayed his doubts for the moment. If his home life was OK
then he could face most things. He thought of Gerry Heffernan, losing his wife and living with a daughter he was terrified
of upsetting by admitting he was seeing Joyce who, in her turn, had problems of her own with her senile mother.

Wesley felt tired. He was hardly able to stay awake for the weather forecast at the end of the ten o’clock news. And once
he was in bed he slept soundly.

Until he began to dream.

He saw Neil’s Juanita, smiling at him. She reminded him of his sister, Maritia, and he wanted to warn her she was in danger
but he couldn’t move. Then, in the way of dreams, she suddenly metamorphosed into Leah Wakefield. She was singing to him.
Joanie Shiner burning bright. Joanie Shiner our true light. Baby, baby, where are you? In the stars that shine on you.
He heard the pounding of feet on a hard playground floor and the swish of the skipping rope, rhythmical, hypnotic. Then the
words going through his head changed.
Peter, Peter, where are you? Gone away into the blue.
Only Peter hadn’t gone away. He was lying there, small and vulnerable in a coffin his throat slit, red and gaping like a
second mouth.

Then Peter sat up and his features changed to those of the young Marcus Fallbrook, the boy he knew from those old photographs.
He turned to Wesley, his eyes blazing like fire, and smiled.

The smile of a skull. The smile of the dead.

‘You look knackered,’ was the greeting Wesley received from Gerry Heffernan the next morning.

‘I didn’t sleep too well.’

Heffernan raised his eyebrows but before he could say anything he was interrupted by Rachel. As she popped her head round
the door Wesley noticed that she looked different somehow. Almost radiant.

‘There’s been a call from someone at Greater Manchester Police – a PC Blunt. He wants to talk to whoever’s in charge of the
Leah Wakefield case. And that thing you wanted me to check . . . Teddy Afleck’s inheritance. It turns out he’s telling the
truth. He inherited seventy thousand from his late mother’s brother. The money wasn’t from Leah Wakefield’s ransom.’ She placed
a sheet of paper on Heffernan’s cluttered desk and smiled.