A Painted Doom (41 page)

‘Didn’t you tell your parents?’

‘Jim wasn’t the sort you told tales about, if you see what I mean. There was something about him … something … evil sounds
a bit dramatic, but I suppose that’s what it was. I told my mum and dad it was an accident. If you were wise you learned to
keep your head down and avoid Jim Simms.’ He thought for a moment. ‘And there were other incidents that people talked about.
I think most folk round here were glad when he left.’

Somehow this didn’t surprise Wesley. That kind of psychopathic behaviour fitted his assessment of James Simms to a tee. It
was a pity that nobody had picked up on it earlier.

‘Why didn’t you tell us about all this, Mr Hoxworthy?’

‘I thought he was probably dead. He just looked so different on telly, and the Scottish accent – there’s just no way I could
have guessed … Anyway, I hope you lock the bastard up for life after what he did.’

Wesley thought it was time he changed the subject. ‘Are you selling the old barn?’

Terry shook his head. ‘It’s being listed, so there’d be too much red tape and it could take years to get round it. My other
barn near the house is nothing special so I’ve decided to convert that instead. It means we’ll have the folk who buy it living
that bit nearer, but we need the money and, with any luck, they might only be here at weekends and
holidays. Let’s just hope they don’t object to a few farmyard smells. I’m not going around putting deodorant under my pigs’
armpits and providing nappies for my cows.’

Wesley laughed. At least, against the odds, Terry had managed to retain a sense of humour.

An hour later, Wesley left and drove the short distance to the other end of Derenham. Neil would be working: he had never
been one to observe the Sabbath during a dig – or at any other time, come to that.

Sure enough he was there, squatting by a trench, sketching its contents. He looked up when Wesley approached, raised a hand
in greeting and carried on drawing.

‘I believe congratulations are in order,’ he said, grinning widely. ‘Pam told me last night. Good news, eh? Especially after
all the problems you had before.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t like Neil to discuss such things. He and Pam must have had a real heart-to-heart over
the beer cans.

‘You were out half the night so I kept her company for a while. You ought to watch it, Wes. Women don’t like to feel neglected.’

Coming from Neil’s lips this was totally unexpected. Neil branching out into relationship counselling was like a bishop singing
bawdy rugby songs from the pulpit – amazing and somewhat bizarre. He couldn’t think of a reply.

‘Nearly finished here?’ he asked after a few seconds.

‘Yeah. Won’t be long now. Then we’ll fill in the trenches and the contractors can move in to start the new village hall.’

‘It said in Richard Merrivale’s will that he didn’t want it built on.’

Neil shrugged. ‘That was a long time ago. His Doom’s going back in the church, so what more could he want? Mind you, I wouldn’t
fancy having to sit there looking at that thing.’ He paused. ‘I believe you got your man last night.’

‘Jack Cromer. He’d raped his sister then tried to murder her, shot Jonny Shellmer, and he was about to set fire to that old
barn you’re having listed with a fifteen-year-old lad inside.’

‘Charming.’ Neil smirked. ‘I’ve always thought he was a nasty bastard.’ He put his sketch down and stood up, stretching his
limbs.

‘You got your man too. Edmund Merrivale – the wicked one. What’ll happen to his skeleton?’

Neil shrugged. ‘It’ll be decently reburied, I expect.’

Wesley nodded. He wondered whether to tell Neil about the discovery of Kathy Heffernan’s killer. But somehow he didn’t fancy
talking about it. He’d had enough.

He walked away, the words of Merrivale’s will ringing in his head. Richard’s last wishes were to be disregarded; the village
hall would be built on the site of his house and the son he had obliterated from the earth would have a decent burial instead
of being thrown into the ground like the animal Richard considered him to be.

But the Doom would remain. A terrible warning. Wesley drew some comfort from this as he drove back to Tradmouth to visit Angela
Simms.

Jonny Shellmer’s funeral was a big affair, and the media were there in force, capturing the assembled grandees of pop music
on film and video.

Liz Carty had come down from Liverpool, swathed in black. Her son – Jonny’s son – was with her, holding her arm protectively.
He was a tall, dark-haired young man who bore a strong resemblance to his father. Liz spotted Wesley and Heffernan in the
throng outside Derenham church and approached them shyly.

‘You got the man who killed Jonny, then,’ she said, her eyes beginning to brim with unshed tears. She reached out her hand.
Wesley took it and shook it gently. ‘I’m glad, I’m really so glad.’

‘All in a day’s work, love,’ said Gerry Heffernan cheerfully.

‘You’ve not met Jonny’s son. He’s just come back from Canada for the funeral. This is William.’

Handshakes again. William looked solemn in dark suit that he seemed quite comfortable wearing.

‘You’re not into music like your dad, are you?’ said Heffernan.

‘No. Actually I’m an accountant like my stepfather.’ The young man smiled as though he could see humour in the situation.

‘It’s probably for the best,’ said Heffernan sympathetically.

‘I heard that Jonny had found his long-lost half-sister.’

‘Yes. The murderer tried to kill her too.’

‘I’m sorry. I hope … I hope she’s okay,’ said Liz as though she meant it.

‘I believe she’s making a good recovery,’ said Wesley. He liked Liz Carty. Perhaps Jonny Shellmer had been foolish to let
her slip through his fingers. There was a lot to be said for the devil – or the angel – you knew.

As Jonny’s ex-wife and son disappeared into the church porch, Wesley scanned the crowd for familiar faces. Terry and Jill
Hoxworthy had come to pay their last respects to Terry’s childhood friend. Lewis was with them, sticking close to his mother’s
side and staring sulkily about him, as though he had expected a celebrity’s funeral to be more fun. Other familiar Derenham
faces were there: whether from respect or curiosity, Wesley didn’t know.

He could see Hal Lancaster near the churchyard gate talking to some TV reporters, a furry microphone held over his head like
a flying rat. Chris Pauling and his wife were with him, along with two other long-haired middle-aged men who were accompanied
by preternaturally attractive female partners. Standing at the edge of the group was Sherry Smyth, beautiful in black. They
were giving Jonny Shellmer a good send-off.

Wesley craned his neck to look round. Pam had said she’d be there with her mother, who had been a great Rock Boat fan in her
day. The atmosphere in the crowded churchyard was somewhere between that of a medieval village fair and that of a public execution.
They were there for a solemn reason, but they were determined to enjoy themselves while they were at it.

Gerry Heffernan gave Wesley a hefty nudge. She had arrived. The crowd parted as she walked slowly up the church path. Angela’s
head was still bandaged but she had made a brave attempt to conceal her wounds with a large-brimmed black hat. He watched
as Liz approached her and, after a brief exchange of words, embraced her new-found
sister-in-law and linked her arm through hers.

There was silence, then a ripple of conversation. A reporter, followed by a man with a flying rat and a video camera, pushed
his way through, followed by others. The whisper went up ‘the sister …’

Wesley and Heffernan caught each other’s eyes and moved as one man towards Angela. Wesley reached her first and shepherded
her and Liz into the church porch while Gerry Heffernan gave the assembled media representatives the benefit of his wisdom.

‘Come on, you lot. This isn’t the time or the place. Leave her alone, eh?’ he said, holding up his warrant card like a magic
wand to dismiss the powers of darkness, who melted back into the shelter of the churchyard wall.

The sun came out from behind a cloud the second that Pam Peterson appeared. She was walking close to her mother, Della, whose
skirt, black to match her jacket, was too short as usual. Heffernan spotted Pam and waved, thinking how radiant she looked:
pregnancy suited her. He looked round for Wesley to tell him of his wife’s arrival, but he had already disappeared into the
church with Angela.

The hearse arrived, laden with flowers fit for the last journey of an East End gangster. Then came an unseemly rush to enter
the church. Things hadn’t been this lively in Derenham for a long time.

Inside, the organ played, something suitably solemn, and when it stopped there was a moment of eerie silence before the song
began and Jonny Shellmer’s voice drifted over the congregation. Music from the grave.

‘Angel, sweet angel, how good it was before the devil came. Angel, my angel, you were just part of his game.’

Wesley heard a loud sob to his left. He turned to see that tears were streaming down Angela’s face. The song had been written
for her and she knew it.

Liz Carty put a comforting arm around her sister-inlaw’s shoulder and Wesley looked to the front, watching the undertakers
place Jonny’s coffin on its bier.

Then his eyes travelled up to the Doom, which now hung over the chancel arch. He stared at it for a while, and as he stared
he was sure that he saw the mouth of one of the angels twitch upward in a smile.

Depictions of the Last Judgement (or ‘Dooms’ as they were called) were a common sight in medieval parish churches, and were
particularly popular in the fifteenth century, which perhaps tells us something about the preoccupations of that society.

The famous Doom at Wenhaston in Suffolk (mentioned by Neil Watson in this book) was painted on wooden boards joined together
and hung over the chancel arch at the front of the church. It was whitewashed over in 1549 at the time of the Reformation,
as it was considered to be a symbol of superstition, and then forgotten for over three hundred years until it was taken from
the church in 1892 to be burned as rubbish. Fortunately, a shower of rain washed off the white paint, revealing the medieval
painting beneath, and it was returned to its original place in the church, where it can be seen to this day. However, my Derenham
Doom is purely fictitious: I know of no surviving Dooms in Devon.

Devon society in the Middle Ages was dominated by the Courtenay family, the powerful Earls of Devon who owned estates all
over the county. The Courtenays were ardent supporters of the House of Lancaster during the Wars of the Roses. Through their
influence, Devon became loyal Lancastrian country, and many of the lesser gentry (like my fictional Merrivales) would have
fought on the Lancastrian side.

My Merrivale letters were loosely influenced by a collection of fifteenth-century letters written by a Norfolk family called
Paston. The Paston Letters give a fascinating insight into medieval life and are recommended reading for anybody interesting
in the period.

The years between 1455 and 1485 marked the climax of the long struggle between various branches of the English royal house,
commonly known now as the Wars of the Roses. Fighting wasn’t continuous and it wasn’t a ‘war’ as we would think of it today,
rather a series of battles fought as a result of the dynastic squabbles of the nobility, barely touching those who weren’t
directly involved.

However, the battles themselves were extremely brutal, not the chivalric affairs of the storybooks. A recently excavated mass
grave of those killed at the Battle of Towton in Yorkshire (1461) contained skeletons which had suffered appalling multiple
injuries. The Battle of Tewkesbury (Gloucestershire) mentioned in this book was fought on 3 May 1471, and many of the defeated
Lancastrians were pursued into Tewkesbury Abbey, where they had sought sanctuary, and slaughtered. King Henry VI’s seventeen-year-old
son, Edward, died in the battle and was buried in the Abbey’s choir, the hopes of the Lancastrian nobility temporarily buried
with him.

Even off the battlefield, fifteenth-century England was a dangerous place. Nobody, even the clergy, was safe from criminals.
And it wasn’t only outlaws and the desperate who spread fear among the peaceable citizens; those in the households of great
nobles often abused their position to terrorise their local neighbourhood.

Travel was a perilous business. Margaret Paston wrote, ‘I never heard say of so much robbery and manslaughter in this country
as is now,’ and the Italian envoy reported that ‘There is no country in the world where there are so many thieves and robbers
as in England, insomuch as few venture to go alone into the country, excepting in the middle of the day and fewer still in
the towns at night, and least of all in
London.’ However, the Lord Chief Justice, Sir John Fortescue, actually boasted of the number of robbers England harboured,
taking it as a sign of the country’s great spirit.

Fourteen years after the Battle of Tewkesbury, Henry Tudor, the last hope of the Lancastrians, who was exiled in France, returned
to England and defeated the Yorkist King Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485. Henry became King Henry VII and united
the houses of York and Lancaster by marrying Richard’s niece, Elizabeth of York. Their son became King Henry VIII … and their
granddaughter was to become one of England’s greatest rulers, Queen Elizabeth I.