A Perfect Death (28 page)

Wesley saw the hatred in her eyes. She was scowling
at him as though he himself was one of her attackers, returned to torment her. Maybe, he thought, it was because of the colour
of his skin. But then during her time in Zimbabwe she must have known a lot of good and decent Africans.

‘I’m really sorry,’ he said softly. ‘And I apologise for disturbing you,’ he added, feeling Gerry’s hand in his ribs again.

The DCI was right. It was time to go. And it looked as if he owed the boss a fiver.

After the archaeological team had gone home Neil Watson remained behind to tidy up and ponder that day’s discoveries in solitude.

He perched himself on an upturned feed trough that had been left in the corner of the field and studied the contents of one
of the finds trays. Lots of medieval pottery of exactly the right date to have been used by the household of Stephen de Grendalle.

He’d now managed to learn quite a lot about Stephen from the archives. He’d sailed from Tradmouth to San Diego de Compostela
on a ship carrying pilgrims in 1209. Then, fuelled with piety, he’d travelled north to fight with Simon de Montfort against
the Cathars. Early in the summer of that year a crusading army had been raised in Burgundy at the request of Pope Innocent
III and, for some reason best known to himself, maybe in penitence for some sin, Stephen, the lord of a Devon manor, had joined
up. But while he was there, witnessing the terrible punishments meted out to the unrepentant heretics, he’d
apparently fallen in love with a young woman called Jeanne who’d been sentenced to be burned alive with her fellow inhabitants
of Minerve.

There was no clue to how Stephen had managed to rescue Jeanne from her gruesome fate but it was clear that they fled back
to England to avoid her capture and execution. Once back in Devon she was baptised and she lived with her new husband until
the legends took over: vague tales of how she betrayed Stephen with another man and, as a consequence, became the burning
bride of local folklore. But did that local folklore have any basis in fact?

Neil looked at the corner of the field where the unfortunate murder victim had died. There had been some interesting geophysics
results a few yards from the spot. Quite intriguing. He now had permission from the police to start digging in that area and
he planned to begin work the next day. But part of him felt a little squeamish about disturbing that particular place.

His thoughts were so immersed in the past that a sudden noise made him jump. Hollow footsteps on the planking laid around
some of the trenches. He looked up and saw a woman walking across the site. She was looking around, taking an interest, but
there was something clandestine in her manner that made him stay silent rather than shout a greeting.

She hadn’t seen him, that much was clear. But then he was sitting in shadow shielded by some low tree branches. If he wanted,
if he just stepped back a little towards the trees, he could watch with no danger of
being seen and find out what she was going to do. Then he suddenly felt guilty. It wasn’t really his style to watch people
unobserved. But it was his site and watching in silence for a minute or so would do no harm.

But as he stood up he knocked over a wheelbarrow, which fell to the earth with a crash. The woman looked round. She wasn’t
dressed for an archaeological site: she wore summer sandals, a floral skirt and a guilty expression on her face, as though
she’d just been caught doing something she shouldn’t. However, this woman didn’t look like any nighthawk he’d come across
in the course of his career, and she was carrying a raffia handbag rather than a metal detector.

‘Hi,’ Neil said, raising a hand. ‘Can I help you?’

The woman seemed to take a few moments to gather her thoughts. ‘Er, I just thought I’d have a look. I’m Sheryl Bright. My
husband’s the developer who owns this field. He’s not around by any chance, is he?’

Neil shook his head. ‘Haven’t seen him today. Sorry.’

‘Well, like I said, I was just passing and I thought … Thanks.’ She turned to go, took a few steps, then turned back to face
Neil. ‘I took part in a dig once. It was fun.’

‘If you’re at a loose end, come and give us a hand,’ said Neil, trying to hide his surprise. Somehow he couldn’t see this
woman with Jon Bright. She was far too good for him.

Sheryl Bright’s heart was pounding. She hadn’t expected anybody to be at Grandal Field. When she’d
taken part in the dig there all those years ago, they’d knocked off at five or five thirty. Some of them had gone off to the
pub but she’d been too young to join them, something she’d resented at the time.

Unsure what to do, she walked away, back to where her Mini Cooper was parked down the lane from an older, scruffier yellow
model and some way away from the familiar battered grey Ford. If she waited till the tall and rather attractive archaeologist
with the longish fair hair had gone it might be OK. But he hadn’t shown any sign of being ready to leave so she knew she could
be in for a long and frustrating wait.

She looked at her watch. It was almost seven and she was hungry. Then she got back into her car and sat there for ten long
minutes, ducking down as the archaeologist climbed into the yellow Mini and drove away. The last thing she wanted was for
him to come over, knock on her car window and strike up another conversation.

As soon as she was sure he’d gone she got out of the car and walked back to the field. This had to be sorted out once and
for all.

She skirted the field, sticking close to the trees so that she wouldn’t be seen by any casual passer-by. When she got to the
spot where the police tape hung like tattered bunting, she heard a noise behind her and froze.

‘Is that you?’ she said in a loud whisper.

But as she turned her head to look round, she felt strong arms around her pulling her towards the dark shelter of the trees.

I have already mentioned Walter Fitzallen, local entrepreneur and founder of Tradmouth’s fortunes. Some letters that passed
between Fitzallen and Stephen de Grendalle still exist, buried deep in various archives, but the one that Urien de Norton
sent to de Grendalle is by far the most interesting. However, I’ll deal with that later.

From the correspondence between Fitzallen and de Grendalle, it is obvious that the two men were on fairly amicable, if businesslike,
terms. They write of ships and cargoes, of the sale of land and of gifts to the church for the salvation of their souls. There
is one in particular from de Grendalle to Fitzallen which contains the following passage (I paraphrase because the language
is somewhat obscure to the modern reader).

‘Your gift to the priest at Townton was most generous and I am minded to do likewise in gratitude for my most felicitous union.
I thank you for your kind invitation to dine on the feast of Saint Matthew. I urge you to show kindness to my wife as our
land and society are most strange to her.’

A letter dated a month later mentions Fitzallen paying another visit to the de Grendalles. And some time after that Walter’s
heiress wife, Isabelle Fitzallen, writes to her father expressing her displeasure at the news that her husband has been seen
by Urien de Norton out riding with Jeanne de Grendalle, lately called Jeanne de Minerve.

We can only assume that Jeanne and Fitzallen had hit it off at their first meeting and had arranged another encounter. But
was everything as it seemed to those suspicious minds?

(From papers found in the possession of Professor
Yves Demancour)

Wesley was surprised that Neil hadn’t turned up the night before, and a little disappointed. He’d been looking forward to
telling him the unexpected news that Ian Rowe could still be alive. Since Neil had started working at Queenswear, he’d taken
to using the Petersons’ house as a base, spending his evenings there and sometimes even sleeping on the sofa when he’d missed
the last ferry. Pam had even fed him on a couple of occasions; as it was the school holidays she didn’t mind too much – in
term time he would certainly have been pushing his luck.

When Wesley arrived in the CID office first thing that morning, listing in his mind his tasks for the day ahead, he met Gerry
Heffernan on the way out. Gerry looked worried, which wasn’t like him. Something was wrong and Wesley asked him what it was.

‘ACC Cuthbert wants to see me – he’s come all the way down from his ivory tower in Exeter to cane my backside. There’s been
a complaint about us.’

‘What are we supposed to have done?’

‘
I’ll give you three guesses.’

‘Sir Martin Crace?’

‘See what you get by interrogating the great and the good. They have friends in lofty places.’

Wesley thought for a few seconds. ‘You know what this means, Gerry?’

‘We’re up to our necks in manure?’

‘No. It means we’ve got Crace rattled about something. Which in turn means that he may not be as pure and perfect as he likes
to make out. He knows that if we dig too deeply we might unearth something unpleasant.’

Gerry’s expression didn’t change. ‘You could well be right, Wes, but it’ll be hard convincing the ACC of that.’

Wesley knew he had a point. What they needed was proof that Sir Martin had some involvement in the deaths of Nadia Lucas and
the unknown man found in Owl Cottage. But the proof might be hard to obtain now that Crace had put the shutters up.

‘Would you like me to come up with you, Gerry?’ Wesley knew only too well how these things worked. As a member of an ethnic
minority, his support for Gerry would count for a lot. It wasn’t something he was particularly happy about, in fact he found
it patronising, but the powers that be seemed to worry about that sort of thing a great deal.

Gerry grinned and their eyes met in understanding. ‘Might not be a bad idea.’

Wesley followed him out. If they were to be hauled
in front of the ACC for daring to do their job, they might as well face it together.

Once in Chief Superintendent Nutter’s office, they stood in front of Nutter and the ACC like a pair of naughty schoolboys.
The ACC, a thin, dapper man in an immaculate uniform, looked from one to the other.

‘There was really no reason for you to come up here, Detective Inspector Peterson,’ he began.

‘I visited Sir Martin and I felt I should be involved, sir.’

The ACC arched his fingers. ‘Sir Martin says that you’ve been harassing him and his staff. And he said that your attitude
to the security staff on the gate on your first visit was arrogant and confrontational.’

Gerry was about to open his mouth to speak but Wesley got in first.

‘I deny that wholeheartedly, sir. We’ve been asking questions about his former employees; one has been murdered and another
is suspected of involvement in a murder. Those security men were rude and obstructive and I think we were rather lenient with
them. Perhaps Sir Martin isn’t quite aware of how his staff behave towards visitors they consider, er … unsuitable,’ he added
reasonably.

This seemed to stump the ACC. He cleared his throat and shot a glance at CS Nutter. ‘Well, sometimes these security people
can get a bit above themselves, I admit. But the fact that the complaint comes from Sir Martin himself …’

‘I’m sure Sir Martin, like any good employer, believes in supporting his staff,’ said Wesley smoothly.
He was looking straight ahead so he didn’t catch the glint of satisfaction in Gerry’s eyes. ‘However, he wasn’t present so
he can’t possibly know how his employees behaved. But we do. We were on the receiving end.’

The ACC grunted something Wesley couldn’t quite hear. The bit about supporting staff was good, he thought to himself. He felt
rather proud of that.

‘I shall speak to Sir Martin and tell him I’ve had a word with you. I assume you won’t be calling on him again.’

‘That depends, sir. This is a murder inquiry and I’m sure the public wouldn’t like to think that we shy away from interviewing
witnesses just because they have wealth and position.’

This time Wesley stole a glance at his boss.

Then the ACC spoke again. ‘Well, Sir Martin did say that his security staff have been under a bit of pressure lately. It seems
that one of them walked out unexpectedly some days ago so the others have had to cover for him. I know it sounds like an excuse
but …’

Wesley and Gerry looked at each other before Gerry spoke for the first time. ‘When you say walked out, sir, did he storm out
or did he simply not turn up? And when was this exactly?’

When the ACC admitted that he had no idea, Gerry broke the bad news. ‘We may have to pay another visit to Bewton Hall after
all, sir. But we’ll be on our very best behaviour. We won’t frighten the horses this time. Promise.’

A momentary look of horror flashed over the ACC’s
face before he said, ‘Just make sure you don’t. No more complaints. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Wesley and Gerry said in unison.

‘I thought we were going to get six of the best,’ Gerry said as they hurried down the stairs back to the CID office.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking about that security guard?’

‘If he suddenly disappeared around the time of the fire at Owl Cottage, it might not be a coincidence? We’ll send someone
round to have a word with Eva Liversedge – I bet she knows everything that goes on in that place and we have to find out if
he just walked out in a huff or if he’s vanished with no explanation.’ He gave Wesley a wink. ‘No need to bother Sir Martin
this time. And we’ll send Rachel and Paul. Just routine enquiries.’

Once they reached the office, Gerry gathered the troops for the morning briefing. They faced the noticeboard with its photographs
of the dead captioned by Gerry’s scrawled comments and Wesley began to go over the new developments.

Dental records had proved that the corpse in Owl Cottage on the outskirts of Whitely wasn’t that of Ian Rowe, which meant
that the dead man was still unidentified and that Rowe was still out there somewhere. And he needed to be found.