A Perfect Death (41 page)

John was working for Crace when he contacted her and asked her to come back to England. Sir Martin’s mother’s cousin in Zimbabwe
had just been reported
missing, and, as Crace had never met her, Jack reckoned that, if she took on Bertha Trent’s identity, they could be reunited,
be mother and son again. It was what he wanted more than anything, he said. When her sister’s husband died Maggie encouraged
him to return to the Midlands, to leave Sir Martin’s employment and start his own business: she was sure he wouldn’t be able
to keep their secret if he stayed there in such close proximity. But he still spent half his time in Devon, playing the devoted
son in secret.

For a long time the plan worked: Sir Martin didn’t suspect a thing when she arrived with tales of how she had suffered under
Mugabe’s brutal regime. He believed every word and gave her a house and financial support. And now, looking at him lying helpless
on the floor, she felt sorry. He didn’t deserve to have his generosity repaid like this.

‘I can’t let you do this, John,’ she heard herself saying. The words came out quietly, almost apologetically.

‘We’ve got no choice, Mum. He knows about you now.’

She placed a hand on the bare flesh of his arm, imploring. The other deaths had been wrong and so was this.

‘Do you want the truth to come out, Mum? Do you want to go to prison for killing that Wendy woman? It’s for the best. If Crace
dies in a house fire, they’ll think it was an accident.’

‘They didn’t think Nadia was an accident.’

‘I had no choice, Mum. She was on to you. I couldn’t let her …’

She felt the tears streaming down the mottled, shiny flesh of her scarred face. ‘You killed that man at your cottage.’

‘I thought it was Rowe. It was dark and I hit him. How was I to know it was the wrong man?’ he said in a self-pitying whine.
‘I had to get rid of Rowe because he was close to Nadia – she’d confided in him. I didn’t know how much he knew so I couldn’t
take the risk.’

‘When’s it going to stop, John? I’ve had enough,’ she sobbed, wiping the tears and mucus from her face. ‘Let’s just go.’ She
began to tug at his T-shirt, but he pulled away, opening the matchbox. ‘Leave it, John. Let’s go.’

He swung round and took her in his arms so roughly that she gasped. ‘I can’t let you rot in prison, Mum. We’ve got no choice.’

He released her from his grip and she stumbled to the ground, clawing at him, trying to stop the inevitable. She could see
the match in his fingers, poised over the matchbox edge, and she could smell the choking petrol fumes. Crace was still lying
there motionless although she was sure he was still breathing.

As she launched herself at her son, there was a thunderous banging on the door. Jack made use of the distraction to shake
his mother off and light the match. When he threw it, the room ignited with a sound like rushing wind.

Jack grabbed her arm and began to pull her away from the blaze but she wriggled out of his grasp and lunged at Crace.

She caught hold of his ankles and started to drag
him away from danger as she heard her son’s voice calling, desperate, like a frightened child. ‘Mummy. Mummy. Come back. We
need to get out.’

He was fighting his way towards her and she had to act. The iron bar he’d used to render Crace unconscious was still lying
there on the floor by the sofa. She picked it up awkwardly and swung it at his head.

He collapsed to the floor, a look of utter amazement on his face as his lips formed the word ‘Mummy’ and his eyes closed.

Suddenly she saw two figures looming through the smoke, masking their faces, coughing and gasping.

‘Help me,’ she called to them feebly. Crace seemed to be getting heavier. She couldn’t manage on her own.

She recognised her two helpers. They were the policemen who’d visited her. She heard the older one shouting as the young black
inspector darted forward, shielding his face with his sleeve against the billowing smoke. The flames were licking round Crace’s
limp body as he came closer.

‘Help him.’ The words came out in a splutter as the smoke caught the back of her throat.

She heard the older man shouting again as the inspector, with a massive effort, relieved her of her burden and dragged Crace
out of the room, dropping his body for a second as the heat began scorch his hands and face. Coughing, he caught hold of Crace’s
shoulders again and began to move faster, pulling the dead weight towards the door and safety, leaving her staring at the
flames.

She sank to her knees, calling Jack’s name. She
could just see him through the smoke. His eyes were closed and the flames were approaching him. When the inspect-or returned
for her, grabbing her firmly to drag her away from danger, she slithered from his grasp and threw herself towards the flames.
She heard his hoarse voice shouting to her as she reached for her son’s body, holding on to him firmly, as though protecting
him from the conflagration.

She closed her eyes and blocked out the sound of the flames and the voices of her rescuers. It would be better this way. She
knew the inspector was close, still trying to save her. But she didn’t choose to be saved.

There was another whooshing sound as the sofa caught alight. It was almost over. She could hear shouting in the distance.
And a scream of pain before everything went bright and she felt a deep and numbing peace.

All my assumptions have been proved wrong. I have actually found her grave. And I was astounded to discover that she died
some ten years after her marriage – in fact she outlived her husband by two years.

The chronicles of Stokeworthy Priory (fragments of which still exist in the Diocesan archives) say that the sister lately
known as Jeanne de Minerve was buried in the priory burial ground. How could this fact have been missed over all these centuries?

Stephen de Grendalle’s burial at Morre Abbey, where he was a generous benefactor, is recorded in 1218. He left his lands to
the Abbey and not to his wife, who we now know was still alive. From this I assume that the couple were separated and that
she took the veil immediately after the fire.

But there is no mention of her in his will, which makes me wonder whether he knew of her survival. Perhaps she escaped from
the burning dovecot and took refuge with the sisters. But there is mention of her bringing a dowry to the Priory so perhaps
she entered the cloistered life with her husband’s blessing and financial support.

I shall try and discover more about Jeanne’s story in due course. But first I have a search of my own to complete – the search
for my mother.

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

Pam hoped that Wesley wouldn’t always bear the scars of his foolhardy but heroic attempt to save the lives of a pair of murderers.
Gerry had told her that Wesley had already managed to get Sir Martin Crace out of the burning cottage when he’d insisted on
going back in to rescue Crace’s two would-be assassins.

Why Wesley had done it, Gerry didn’t know, although he’d probably get a commendation for his trouble. But in spite of his
best efforts, he’d failed. Maggie March and her son, Jack Plesance, had both perished in the blaze.

Pam felt angry with him for risking his life. More than angry, furious. He had young children who needed their father. He
might have left her widowed. As she walked into the ward at Tradmouth Hospital, she thought she was going to find it hard
to forgive him.

When she spotted him lying there, propped up on hospital pillows with a transparent oxygen mask dangling around his neck and
his left arm bandaged, she hesitated for a moment. Neil was already sitting there by his side, popping grapes into his mouth
as he talked and looking quite unconcerned. After a few seconds she carried on walking, her eyes fixed on her husband’s face.
He didn’t look too bad, considering
what he’d been through. But that wasn’t the point.

She felt tempted to turn round and go home. Wesley had Neil to keep him company, after all. It would only take a visit from
Gerry Heffernan and some of his CID colleagues to make it quite a party. But it was too late for a retreat. He had seen her
and he’d raised himself up on his pillows, coughing with the effort. He looked pleased to see her and she suddenly felt a
stab of conscience.

‘How are you?’ she asked as she sat down on the bed. She’d brought nothing with her. She’d left the children with a neighbour
and hurried straight to the hospital so she hadn’t had time.

‘The doctor said I’ll be fine. I inhaled some smoke and there are some superficial burns to my arm but—’

‘He’ll get time off work,’ Neil chipped in. ‘So it’s not all bad.’

Wesley ignored his friend and grasped Pam’s hand. ‘I’ll be out of here in a day or so. How are the kids?’

Neil offered her a grape but she shook her head and leaned forward. What she had to say wasn’t for the whole ward to hear.
‘You risked your bloody life. What about me and the kids, eh? What about your family?’

‘I was only doing my job.’

‘That’s right, Pam,’ said Neil. ‘He was only doing his job. You should be proud of him. I’ve never done anything heroic like
that.’ He popped another grape into his mouth. They were almost finished. He looked into her eyes, a mischievous smile on
his lips. ‘So you won’t be interested in the reward then?’

‘What reward?’

‘You don’t save the life of an extremely rich man like Crace and come away empty-handed. He’s offered to give you and Wes
a luxury holiday. All expenses paid to anywhere you fancy. Your choice.’

Pam hesitated, lost for words. Perhaps she’d been too hasty. She forced a smile. ‘That’s nice.’

‘I’d go for the ruins of Pompeii myself,’ Neil said.

Pam saw the temptation on Wesley’s face but before she had a chance to make her objections to any holiday that involved too
many archaeological sites, another figure appeared, hovering at the end of the bed as though unsure how he’d be received.

‘Hello Wesley. Hello Neil, long time no see,’ Ian Rowe said. ‘Sorry about, er …’

Wesley and Neil looked at the newcomer expect-antly. ‘I heard what happened and I just came to say goodbye. I’m off back to
France. Back to Carcassonne.’

‘What about Sir Martin? What about this thing about the DNA test?’

Rowe shrugged. ‘He says he’ll take one if I insist but he keeps making excuses – he’s off to some summit or he’s got a meeting
with the Prime Minister. He keeps denying that he’s my dad …’ He hesitated. ‘Sometimes it seems more trouble than it’s worth.
And he’s dropped hints about his team of expensive lawyers who’ll no doubt take me to the cleaners if I breathe a word to
the press so …’

‘So you’re thinking of giving up?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps I haven’t got much choice if he keeps stalling. I can’t force him to take a DNA test, can I? And if
any questions are asked he’ll just say he’s
willing but the time’s not right. Maybe when he’s dead I’ll prove it once and for all.’

Pam looked at him, shocked. Her husband and his colleagues had gone to so much trouble to rescue Crace and now this man was
standing there wishing him dead.

‘At least you know who killed Nadia now. At least she’s had justice.’ He looked at Wesley. ‘So what exactly happened? Why
did they kill her?’

Wesley took a deep breath which brought on a coughing fit. Pam put her arms around his shoulder, suddenly protective. He shouldn’t
be bothered like this. She gave Rowe a hostile look.

But once Wesley had recovered, he seemed quite happy to talk. ‘Nadia pieced the facts together and she’d worked out that Wendy
Haskel might not have committed suicide. That thing she said to you – “What if it’s the other way round?”’

Rowe’s eyes widened in horror. ‘It could be my fault she was killed. I phoned Jack one day and we got chatting. He’d known
Nadia and he seemed really interested so I told him all about her trying to find out what happened to her mother and the letter
she’d found and everything. If it wasn’t for me she might still be alive. Why couldn’t I have kept my bloody mouth shut?’

‘You weren’t to know,’ Pam said gently. She’d never seen Ian Rowe genuinely upset before.

‘Come to think of it,’ Rowe continued, ‘Jack was always a bit obsessed with his mother. He used to talk about her a lot … said
she was wonderful. He never gave any hint that she was actually living at Bewton
Hall. They kept up a good act.’

‘She’d rejected him as a child,’ said Wesley. ‘Maybe that’s why he became obsessed with her. I think he’d have done anything
to hide what she’d done all those years ago. Maggie would have known all about the site at Queenswear. She’d been in charge
of the excavation and she’d have known the legend of the burning bride and how it fitted in with the burned layer found at
the dovecot. I wonder if she went there with Jack and pointed out the spot. I wonder if she watched him kill Nadia and set
her body alight.’

‘And me?’ Rowe said almost in a whisper. ‘Why did he try to kill me? I was supposed to be his friend.’

‘Because you were trying to find out what happened to Nadia,’ Wesley replied. ‘Only Eva sent Denis Wade to warn you off about
Crace and try to get hold of that evidence you told her you had. When you heard him break in, you left the house and hid outside.
It was dark and Jack didn’t expect anyone else to be in there. Wade was just unlucky. He died in your place, Ian. That fire
was meant for you.’

‘I know.’

Pam watched Ian as he walked out of the ward. If she never saw him again in her life, it wouldn’t bother her in the least.

Wesley never thought he’d miss work so much. The buzz of the CID office, Rachel Tracey organising the younger DCs like a mother
hen, Gerry Heffernan’s wisecracks. He felt helpless and somewhat useless as he convalesced at home. He’d tried to persuade
Pam that
he was fine to go back but she’d put her foot down. It was good to be home together in the school holidays, she said. He tried
hard to agree with her and felt guilty when he failed.