A Painted Doom (37 page)

To all true Christian people of Derenham. Sir Richard Merrivale, knight, and Lady Marjory his wife, send greeting in Our Lord
Everlasting. Know ye that we have promised and granted and be fully purposed to find an honest and discreet priest to sing
and say Mass within the Parish Church of Derenham in the County of Devonshire during our life and to pray for our souls after
our death. For this purpose we will cause a chapel to be made in the said Parish Church where our bodies shall be buried also.

Know ye also that we have caused a great Last Judgement to be painted for the said Parish Church for the instruction of all
parishioners and to serve as reminder of the vile sin of our most wicked kinsman who violated the laws of God and man and
who burns now in everlasting fire, and to the memory of our daughter, Elizabeth, who died in child bed a month since.

In witness we have set our seals, the twentieth day of
May 1472.

Wesley and a pair of uniformed officers had already visited the suspect’s house but they had found it empty, as Wesley had
known it would be. The telephone call he had made to
London earlier had confirmed that the suspect’s alibi was false. He had lied to the police, and the more Wesley thought about
it, and the more he stared at Jonny Shellmer’s childhood photograph, the more convinced he was that he was on the right track.

He would try the house again later. But in the meantime he would seize the opportunity to meet Neil at All Saints church.
He had to return the book of Merrivale letters, and Neil had said that he had found something of importance during his visit
to Exeter, the last piece of the jigsaw. And Wesley could never resist a puzzle.

He hurried up the church path, holding his coat tightly around him against the fine drizzle blowing in from the river. There
were no lights shining behind the stained-glass windows, and the ancient building looked deserted. He pushed the great oak
door and it opened stiffly with a loud creak, as effective as any intruder alarm. He stepped inside the darkened church, and
for a few seconds his eyes could make out only shapes and shadows. Then, as they adjusted, he spotted a familiar figure in
the chapel on the far side, standing by the Merrivales’ impressive tomb.

Neil turned as he heard Wesley’s footsteps approaching up the north aisle. ‘Thought you wouldn’t be able to stay away,’ he
said.

Wesley thrust his hands into his pockets. There was a chill in the church which he hadn’t noticed before. ‘What have you found?’
He drew the small brown book from his pocket and handed it to Neil, who gave him a sheet of paper, a photocopy, in return.

‘I found this in the diocesan archives – it’s about the Merrivales having this chapel built and donating the Doom to the church.
Interesting, the bit about the vile sin of our most wicked kinsman. I reckoned it must have been something more than parking
his horse on a double yellow line so I investigated further.’

‘Go on,’ said Wesley.

‘Have you read the Merrivale letters?’

Wesley nodded. ‘And I’ve tracked down the originals and they include a couple of extra letters that our upright Victorian
clergyman didn’t think were fit for …’

But Neil wasn’t listening. He was carried away with his own theories. ‘Well, putting two and two together, I reckoned that
the most wicked kinsman must have been Richard Merrivale’s son, John, and the dreadful thing he did was to rape his own half-sister,
Elizabeth.’

‘That fits with the names on the painting,’ said Wesley, looking at the faded letters. ‘Tamar and the other word worn away
which seems to begin with A? Having been sent to Sunday school every week as a child I thought it might be a Bible reference.
I thought Tamar sounded familiar so I looked it up in the Old Testament: King David’s son, Amnon, raped his half-sister, Tamar.’

As one who had never attended Sunday school in his life, Neil tried not to look impressed. Then a grin spread across his face.
‘But I’m one step ahead of you this time. I’ve found Richard Merrivale’s will and I know the whole story – about the headless
skeleton, the lot – and I can tell you that you’re very warm indeed but not red hot.’

Wesley could see that Neil was enjoying dangling the solution tantalisingly out of his reach. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me?’

Neil hesitated, then relented. He delved in his pocket and pulled out another sheet of paper, crumpled and warm. Wesley took
it from him and straightened it out.

‘Read that, Wes. I’m going to give a copy to Maggie Flowers so it can be read out at the history evening tomorrow night. It
should liven the proceedings up a bit. Will you be there?’

Wesley, who had only just got around to considering their Saturday night arrangements, read the words on the paper and nodded.
‘I’ll be there,’ he said quietly.

The suspect’s public-spirited neighbours informed PC Johnson that the person in question might not be back until
later that night or even early the next morning. Wesley told Johnson it would wait. The main thing was to be discreet; they
didn’t want to show their hand too soon.

As there was nothing much he could do until their quarry appeared, Wesley arrived home at a reasonable time. Pam rushed into
the hall when she heard his key in the lock and stood in the hall, clutching the radiator, as if warming her hands. Wesley
kissed her, then he looked her in the eye. There was a suppressed excitement there: she had some news.

‘I’ll make the supper,’ he offered, surprised at his own recklessness. ‘Give you a break. How was school?’

‘As okay as school ever is. I’m taking my class down to Neil’s dig next week.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows.

‘Well, he did offer, so he’s only got himself to blame if the little darlings trample all over his precious trenches.’ She
smiled, a secret smile that Wesley suspected had nothing to do with the prospect of thirty eleven-year-olds frolicking in
the Derenham mud.

‘Anything wrong?’

Pam shook her head. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. In fact …’ She reached for his hand and placed it on her stomach. ‘I went to
see the doctor today.’ He hesitated, suddenly coy. ‘I’m having another baby.’ She looked into his eyes hopefully, watching
for signs of delight or disappointment.

Wesley stood frozen for a moment. They had had such trouble conceiving Michael that this news was unexpected. He had only
just got used to being a father, and he didn’t know how he felt about starting the whole process again. But he couldn’t let
Pam see that he had any misgivings. He put his arms around her and held her, his mind racing.

‘Aren’t you pleased?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Of course I am,’ was the automatic reply. He forced himself to smile. He’d get used to the idea. He’d have to.

‘I know Michael’s only one, but they say small age gaps are best,’ she assured him.

He’d take her word for it. ‘It’s great news,’ he said,
trying to sound enthusiastic but with half his mind on his workload. Police work being what it was, he was afraid he wouldn’t
be much help to a wife with one small baby, another on the way and a full-time career. The thought depressed him for a few
moments, but then he tried to put on a brave face.

He reckoned they could both do with an evening out. ‘Can we get a baby-sitter for tomorrow night? It’s that history evening
in Derenham. Gerry’s singing in the choir.’ A couple of hours away from home listening to Gerry’s vocal efforts was better
than nothing.

‘Then how can we miss it? I’ll ask Lisa down the road. It shouldn’t be a problem.’

‘I’ll make the supper, then. You go and put your feet up.’

He watched as Pam disappeared into the living room and suddenly felt very helpless against the forces of nature.

Saturday morning was like any other in the CID office. Weekends seemed like an ancient custom from some idealised, slower
past, peopled with rosy-cheeked milkmaids and labourers trudging behind horse ploughs.

It was 2.30 when PC Johnson reported in. The suspect had arrived home at 11.30. Alone. The only visitors had been the postman
and a red-headed teenage lad who looked very like the boy who’d gone missing – Lewis Hoxworthy. The boy had left his bike
at the gate and had pushed something through the letterbox, but Johnson couldn’t see what: perhaps it was just an outlying
part of the lad’s paper round.

Wesley said that Steve Carstairs was coming out to Derenham to relieve him and Johnson sounded happy at the news.

The sound of singing wafted from Gerry Heffernan’s office. He was getting some practice in before the big night. The tune
sounded cheerful; a bouncy ditty in medieval Latin.

‘
Verbum caro factum est
…’ boomed out Heffernan’s baritone.

‘What’s he on about?’ Steve Carstairs mumbled as he swept from the office to take over Johnson’s vigil. There was no pleasing
some people.

Wesley abandoned his reports and ambled into the singer’s lair. Heffernan stopped in mid-phrase and gave a devilish grin.
‘All ready for tonight, Wes?’

‘Pam’s got a baby-sitter so we’ll both be there.’ He paused, wondering whether he should mention Pam’s revelation. He felt
he had to tell somebody – and he regarded Gerry as a friend as well as his boss. ‘Pam’s having another baby.’

A wide smile spread over Gerry Heffernan’s chubby face and he grabbed Wesley’s hand and shook it heartily. ‘Congratulations.
Shows you’re not working hard enough here if you’ve got the strength left for that sort of thing.’ He emitted a cheeky chuckle.
‘Pam okay, is she?’

Wesley nodded. At least someone was pleased. But maybe he’d feel more enthusiastic himself once he got used to the idea.

Heffernan made a quick search of his desk and produced a couple of sheets of paper stapled together at the left-hand corner.
‘Look at item seven.’ He pushed the papers towards Wesley, who picked them up. They were a copy of the running order for the
performance, beginning with monastic plainchant in the bell-tower. Each piece of music sung by the choir followed a reading
or a dramatised account of some aspect of the church’s history.

‘We had a rehearsal last night and your mate Neil was there. He told Maggie Flowers about this old will he’d found and she
agreed it should be read out after the piece of drama about the Merrivales. Some people from the village have volunteered
to do readings, and look whose name’s down against the new one.’

Wesley stared, then he smiled. ‘You mean he’ll actually be reading out Richard Merrivale’s will?’

‘Why is that so funny? I was just pointing out that he’s
down to do a reading. Does it matter what reading? Anyway, he might not be doing it. I’m going to have him picked up and questioned
this afternoon.’

‘I think we should let him do the reading. I want to see his face when he sees we’re watching him, when he realises that we
know.’

Heffernan shrugged. ‘Okay. So we arrest him after the history evening if you think it might give us some more evidence against
him.’

‘It’s not that,’ said Wesley, almost to himself. ‘I just want to see how he reacts when he reads that will – whether he gives
himself away.’

‘What’s in the will anyway?’

‘You’ll find out tonight.’

‘Any news on Angela Simms?’

‘She’s improving steadily. If she goes on like this she should be out of hospital in a week or so.’

‘I think we should still keep an eye on her.’

‘Yes. There’s always the chance the killer’ll try and finish what he started.’

‘So you don’t think it was a robbery?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘That’s what we were meant to think, but there’s someone around here who’s got a very good reason for
wanting Angela Simms out of the way.’

Wesley went off in search of Rachel, who told him she’d visit the hospital after she’d caught up on her paperwork to see how
Angela was progressing. She would, hopefully, have another word: if she could gain the woman’s trust she would be bound to
confide in her eventually.

As they talked, Wesley wondered whether he should tell Rachel his news about Pam. But something made him stay silent. As he
noted the wisps of fair hair escaping from her ponytail against the slenderness of her neck, somehow he didn’t feel like sharing
the news with Rachel.

He walked slowly back to his desk with a feeling of deep regret that shocked him.

*

Derenham was a boring place, thought Steve Carstairs as he sat in his car, keeping watch outside the suspect’s house. Nothing
ever happened there. True, there was a fair smattering of well-known faces who used the village as a retreat from the hurly-burly
of the metropolis – and there had been a murder. But now nothing was happening, and if anyone was to ask his opinion he’d
tell them that his vigil was a waste of time.

The suspect hadn’t moved from the comfort of his own home. He hadn’t been spotted through his front-room window strangling
someone in full view of passers-by; he hadn’t disposed of any dismembered corpses by burying them in the front garden or stuffing
them into his dustbins; and he hadn’t run amok with a shotgun and massacred the entire population of Derenham.

Sometimes Steve didn’t know why he did this job.

He closed his eyes. He had had a heavy night last night, out with Melissa sampling a new club in Morbay; too much booze and
a bit of the other. He knew that if he wasn’t careful he would fall asleep. But what did it matter? The suspect wasn’t going
anywhere on this damp, grey day. Steve sank down in the driver’s seat and began to drift off into oblivion.

It was only when he heard a car engine revving then fading into the distance that he opened his eyes. He stared at the empty
space where the suspect’s car had been parked and uttered a string of oaths that would have made Gerry Heffernan blush.

Gerry Heffernan punched his desk, making Rachel Tracey jump. ‘I’ll swing for that bloody Steve. I’ll have him handing out
parking tickets in Tradmouth High Street – that’s about all he’s good for. I only asked him to watch the house and follow
the suspect if he went out. Surely that’s not hard for someone of normal intelligence.’